Rush (19 page)

“Cheers,” she says, touching rims. She takes a slow swig and meets his eyes for the first time since he entered the room. Stopping mid-swallow, her gaze narrows, focusing on his mouth. She gulps, forcing the champagne down over a growing smile. “You shaved the copstache,” she says, cheerily. “I like it.” She raises her glass to her red lips and casts a casual glance down his tall form. “What’s the occasion?” she asks, with a teasing appreciation in her voice.

Marcus pauses, and a slow grin spreads over his face. “I’m taking you to the banquet.” He takes another swallow then continues. “And we’re going to be late if you don’t kick it in to gear, Lone Star.”

Her mouth hangs speechless for a moment, then a long, intense look passes between them. All of a sudden I feel like there’s something more than just friendship brewing here. I turn a “when did this happen?” look to Preston.

Jace tosses back the rest of her champagne and hands him the empty glass. She raises her chin, holds up a hand, and mouths the words, “Five minutes.”

Wow. That just happened. I think they like each other. Or, I think Marcus likes her, and Jace… I don’t know what Jace is thinking, but she’s thinking something.

“Let me know if you need help,” I call, beaming at Marcus.

“I got it,” her voice sings from the hall.

“Smooth move,” Preston says.

I move to hug Marcus, laying my cheek against his chest. “I seriously love you right now.” Preston throws his arms open in mock offense as Marcus pats my back and laughs.

Less than five minutes later, Jace skids into the living room, and the pre-banquet shine I saw on her face earlier has returned with a vengeance. “Okay, I’m ready,” she chirps, posing with her hands on her hips and a toe pointed forward. She’s wearing a lacy black A-line dress short enough to show off her athletic curves, and Marcus is admiring the whole picture.

“That’s the hottest date I almost never had,” he observes.

“Word,” she responds, heading for the door and swinging it open. “I’ll drive.”

Preston grabs my hand as we’re walking across the parking lot. “We’re going to drive separate,” he shouts up to them, and then says lower over my ear, “In case we want to cut out early.”

We follow Jace’s white Jeep as it whips through the short blocks and merges onto I-75 South. Ten minutes later, we’re crossing the bridge to Belle Isle, the small island in the middle of the Detroit River where the Detroit Yacht Club is located and our event is being held.

The car weaves around the island’s two-lane road, passing a trio of abandoned structures. “We used to come to the zoo here when I was a kid, but it closed when the economy tanked,” I say, squinting at the cone-shaped roofs and graffiti-decorated walls. “It makes me sad,” I murmur, as we pass the last of the vine-covered gates.

“In a way it has a beauty of its own, though. Don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t. It’s a mess.”

He chuckles at my response. “Well, when you grow up as poor as I did, you learn to look a little closer.” I smile, thinking about how that statement could apply to me. “Thank you for coming with me,” he says, pulling my fingers to his lips and kissing the backs of them.

Warmth seeps into my bones. The “all dolled up” thing still seems a bit foreign, but the way he looked at me made me feel like I might pull this off—actually wear a dress and not feel awkward about my height. I’m even wearing heels—not very well, seeing as I’ve already stumbled twice—but they’re still on, and Preston’s arm seems at the ready, willing to tip me back on course.

The Yacht Club is a restored 1920s Mediterranean style mansion, and the parking attendants swarm around the slow line of cars easing up to the front doors. We unload and head in, checking our coats in the small closet under the staircase. Preston and Marcus stop to chat with some basketball players, and I seize the opportunity to get Jace alone. I pull her onto the wide staircase, and we start to climb.

“Nice job on the date upgrade,” I say.

“Just like I planned it,” she responds.

I run my fingers along the carved wood bannister as we talk, trying to measure the level of interest in her bright face. The top of the stairway is blocked by a group of men, probably football players, by the looks of their large shoulders.

“Excuse me,” I say, and Jace leans to skirt past them as they shuffle.

“Damn,” one of them exclaims. He’s looking at me—well, he’s looking at my body—nodding his head in a slow, inappropriate, albeit appreciative manner. His eyes rise to mine, and my insides seize. It’s Tyler. I shift a quick glance over and catch Darren’s profile, along with three other guys I don’t recognize.

Tyler’s smile widens, and he looks at Jace. “Hey, it’s the soccer bitches.” His loud voice turns heads and his movements seem slightly hindered. I think he’s drunk. My previous run-in with him is like a raw scrape, fresh on my nerves—probably because I know what he’s capable of, and the last thing I want is to cause a scene. I angle, ready to step around him, but he’s not done. “Damn, you don’t look like the same girl, you’d be a perfect ten if you had some tits to go with that fine ass.” Every muscle in my body seizes up and heat fills my ears. One of his buddies snickers and attempts to pull him back. My ankle twists painfully over my shoe, and I pitch right, catching the bannister with my hip.

Jace takes the insult the same way she takes a thirty-mile-an-hour soccer ball—she’s caught it and is ready to throw it back, pointing her finger at him, ready to blow.

I hear Preston’s voice and turn to see him two steps behind me. He blanches at the look on my face, then furrows his brow as he sees Jace’s “show down at the O.K. corral” stance. In a flash, he’s beside me, gripping my elbow and reaching for Jace. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“The Pied Piper of Intoxication and his village idiots just announced that the soccer bitches were here,” she explains, “and then he told Priscilla she should get some—”

“Jace!” I yell, cutting her off. Jesus.
Does anyone else want to give a shout out to my tits?

“He made a crude comment,” she amends.

But Preston doesn’t wait for her to finish. His jaw shifts and locks, and his focus is sharpening on Tyler. I extend my hand, and it skims the starchy fabric of his jacket as he lunges forward, towering over Tyler’s puffed up form.

“I don’t care how drunk you are, you’d better fucking apologize. Now,” Preston sneers. Tyler stumbles back a pace as two of the guys behind him claw at his shoulders. Marcus reaches for Jace’s arm and trades places with her.

“Apologize, Tyler,” a voice behind him advises, and another village idiot echoes the sentiment.

“It was a compliment,” Tyler spits out. “Christ. Sorry,” he says, swatting a hand through the air and turning away. The circle around him moves, and several of the couples who stopped to watch the show are shaking their heads, casting sympathetic looks my way.

“Is that the same dude that came after you?” Marcus asks, concern in his voice. Preston’s head snaps toward me, and I feel the fierce heat of his already worked-up temper.

“What?” he bites out. “What do you mean, ‘came after you’?”

Oh God, Marcus. Why did you have to let it slip now?
I release a breath and drop my head, which Jace takes as her cue to spill the whole story.

A mask of fury moves up Preston’s face until the tiny lines at the side of his eyes are white. “There were three of them,” Jace explains, “and they weren’t going to let her out of that room.” Preston looks at me, the anger and disbelief growing behind his eyes as Jace continues. I can’t tell how much of it he’s directing at me and how much of it belongs to Tyler but it makes me feel even worse. My stomach sinks. “The only way she was able to get away was by opening the Periscope app and lighting them up.”

Carson appears at the top of the stairway with Sasha. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, his smile fading at the look on our faces.

“I gotta get some air,” I murmur, ducking behind a passing body, feeling slightly sick, and desperate to get out of the spotlight. I cross the space in quick steps and dive into the ladies’ room. A women’s lounge separates the stalls from the entry, and I move to sit on the white padded bench in the corner. My reflection stares back at me, and I let out a deep breath. The door opens, and I’m half expecting to see Jace, but instead I’m staring at slightly familiar face. It takes me a moment to clear the stew of jumbled thoughts in my head and recognize her.

“Hi,” she says, moving slowly forward. “Can I talk to you?”

It’s Amelia.

Seriously? Is this some kind of conspiracy? I consider saying no, but what’s the use—might as well let her pile it on. “I guess so,” I say, raising a brow.

Her curves are packed tight inside a short satin dress—the hot pink color screams cheap and hormonal. I thought I had on a lot of makeup but Amelia’s face is a palooza of pastels, shimmering with blue shadow, peach cheeks and pink lips. You’d think one of her friends would have stepped up and told her she’s a fire hazard wearing that much wax.

She breathes a long sigh and walks closer. Her head tips, moving the mass of red-brown curls piled on top of her head, and something flashes. Is she wearing a tiara? Seriously? A fucking tiara?

“First off—well, I was a little drunk when Preston introduced us last night—so, sorry if I was rude.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, in an “all is not forgiven” tone, still inspecting the glittering object on top of her head. It’s a hair clip—a huge hair clip in the shape of a bow.

“Look, the word is out about the trouble you and Preston got in and about your hearing coming up.” She hesitates and I seam my lips into a tight line, trying not to react. But what the hell is
she
doing all up in my business acting like she has every right to be there.

Her thighs flatten against the floral chintz couch as she half sits on the arm, flashing a jiggle of loose cleavage.
Thanks for that.

“I’m pretty sure he’s not telling you the whole truth about his life…about his problems. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

A tingling sensation jumps into the base of my skull. I’m trying to maintain a poker face but my instincts are telling me she’s not lying. She knows something I don’t. My heart feels thick. I should walk away from this conversation right now—it’s only going to get worse if I sit here and listen. I should be strong enough to trust him. Whatever she knows doesn’t matter. But I want to know what she knows, and I want to know why Amelia’s entitled to have privileged information about him when I’m not. He must have told
her
at some point.

“You’re going to ruin the end of his college football career, and possibly hurt his future, and I know you don’t want that.” She makes a tsking noise, and I snap.

“
I’m
going to ruin the end of his college career? By having him appear at a hearing and tell the board I acted in self-defense during a bar fight—how does that ruin his college football career?”

“God, he really hasn’t told you anything, has he?” Her words slice through me. I cross my arms as a mocking laugh escapes her.

“I know you’re his gone girl right now.” She starts in again. “But he’s had other girls, and he always comes back to me. He has to—we’re long term.”

Now I know that’s a lie—or at least a misperception on her part—but how is she involved in all of this? I push a swallow down my dry throat and let out a shaky breath as she babbles. I’d like to shove her face in the couch cushions so she’ll stop talking. Her makeup would probably leave a permanent mask of Maybe It’s Maybelline.

I stand up and grab my clutch, heading for the door. “Thanks for the counseling session, Amelia.”

“So you’re going to tell him, right, that you don’t need him at that hearing?”

I pause and turn back, considering her look of expectation—as if now that she’s enlightened me, I’m just going to step aside.

Wrong.

“If Preston or any of the other football players did something they have to hide, that does not involve me. All I’ve done is ask him to show up and tell the truth. He’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions. In the meantime, I’m not going to let you or any of those other buffoons bully me into thinking that because I’m a female athlete, I should bow to the jock straps. If you want to trail after them and squirt water in their mouths when they grunt at you—have at it. I’ll be on the field scoring goals.” I cross the small room, open the door, and walk out. By the look on her face, I think I made my point.

Geez, I ducked in the bathroom to catch my breath and calm down. Mission not accomplished. I move through the loose crowd, my numb legs carrying the burden of what she said. An uneasy feeling is lodged between my ribs like a blade. I think Preston has this whole other world going on that everyone else seems to know about except me. I’m not among the football elite who want to either protect their golden boy, or keep him to themselves.

I step onto the terrace that stretches across the back of the old mansion, hoping to steady my shallow breath. The cool air skims over my arms as I move to the shadows. I press close to the railing, watching the dark waters lap against the empty docks below. Slow footsteps strike the tile behind me. I don’t turn around, but I know it’s Preston.

Long fingers press a feather light touch to my hip. I stiffen, then draw a breath and remind myself to relax. He crosses an arm around my chest and pulls me back to rest against him. “Hey,” he says. His fingers skim my cheek as he moves my hair. “You disappeared.” I close my eyes, feeling conflicted by the man I know and the man people feel compelled to threaten me away from—including Preston. He warned me himself. I concentrate on the feel of his solid body against my back and try to pull myself out of the downward spiral. I want to feel what I felt with him last night and forget Amelia’s smug face and the sound of her voice.
He really hasn’t told you anything, has he?

“You should have told me,” he whispers over my ear, and I tense at his words, confused at first—I should have told him?
He
should have told me—and then I realize he’s talking about Tyler. I can’t do it. I can’t get rid of what Amelia said.