Chapter 40
Locke
“I’ve never been in this room,” Joey singsongs as she practically skips to the couch closest to the TV.
I fight against the urge to chase after her and wrangle her onto my lap.
The vibe between us has been tenuous at best since she moved in. Hot and cold. Tension and ease. But I haven’t let that discourage me. I’ve been playing the long game—biding my time and allowing her to cool off, hoping that she’ll eventually come around.
Thank god she has, because my patience has officially expired.
“What’ll it be, Hot Girl? Do you have a movie in mind?”
She pops up over the back of the couch as I approach with measured strides. I’m not usually so reserved around women. I know what I like, and I’m not afraid to go after what I want.
But an overwhelming sense of caution tempers my impulses when it comes to Joey.
Probably because I know what it feels like to bask in her affection. She lights up my insides, and I swear she really sees me. On the flip side, I also know the bleakness of being out of her good graces and the pain that comes with having her ire directed at me.
Never. Again.
I’m determined to lock her down and make her mine. In any way she’ll let me.
Cohabitation in a mostly platonic situationship for the last few weeks has proven one thing over and over again: I want her. And now I’m determined to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
“Let’s watch something funny,” she suggests, stretching her arms overhead in a move that puts her T-shirt-clad tits on full display.
She side-eyes me and winks, proving she knows exactly what she’s doing. Little minx.
“Stupid funny, rom-com funny, or stoner funny?”
Her face screws up in the cutest way as lets out a hum. “My favorite movie is actually a combo of all three.”
My heart rate ticks up a notch, and I prowl closer. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“No,” she insists, wearing a puzzled frown as she follows my movements.
Snagging the remote, I plop down on the couch cushion beside her. Like I said: I know what I want, and I’m done waiting.
Without a second’s hesitation, I pick up her hand and lace our fingers together. She squeezes in response, making me woozy with anticipation.
I grin. “I can only think of, like, four movies that encapsulate all three of those categories. And one of them just so happens to be my favorite movie.”
She narrows her eyes and searches my face. “Did it come out in the mid-2000s?”
“Yep.”
“Is it set in Hawaii?” she challenges, a smug look on her face like she’s bested me.
I can’t fight back my smirk.
“It is.”
Her eyes practically double in size, and she gives me a slow blink. “You’re kidding me. You’re kidding, right?” In this moment, she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her.
I love this side of her. I love that I can bring about this kind of reaction.
“There’s no way we have the same favorite movie.”
“What if we do?” I challenge.
She stares at the blank screen for a moment, contemplating, then shrugs. Turning toward me, she cuddles closer, leaning against my arm until I can smell the sweet floral scent of her shampoo.
Batting her lashes, she looks up at me with big doe eyes and declares, “Then I guess it means we’re soul mates.”
She’s teasing me. I know that. But a little spark of hope still flares inside me, and I swear my heart feels like it’s beating double time.
“Say the name of the movie on three,” I instruct.
She nods, then we count together:
“One, two, three.”
“50 First Dates.”
“Forgetting Sarah Marshall.”
“What?”
“Seriously?”
“No!”
Joey bursts into a fit of giggles. “Your favorite movie is 50 First Dates? Are you serious?”
“It’s an incredible story!” I defend.
She clutches her stomach and gasps for breath. “It’s just like every other”—another laugh slips out—“Adam Sandler movie ever made!” She tosses her head back. “But set in a tropical location!”
“Um, no. It’s a masterpiece. Cinematic perfection. It’s funny. Clever. Romantic.” I give her a pointed stare. “It’s the best stupid stoner rom-com set in Hawaii. Full stop.”
She sits up straight and takes a calming breath before turning to me.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asks.
“We’re going to have to watch them both to figure out the truly superior film?”
She shakes her head, looking forlorn. “We’re not soul mates. In fact, this might make us mortal enemies.”
I pull her until her thigh presses against my leg, just in case she gets any funny ideas about putting space between us. Not. Happening.
Tilting closer, I brush my nose against hers. “We’re watching both. End of story.” I hold her wrists in my hands and bite down on my lip, desperate to kiss her. We’re still nose to nose, but a prickle of insecurity gives me pause.
She’s the one who pumped the brakes. She’s the one who pushed me away. As silly as it might seem, I want her to choose me. I want her to want me. I want her to kiss me.
And as if she can read my mind, she presses her lips to mine.
It’s a soft, tender kiss. A sweet caress filled with forgiveness.
I pull on her wrists to bring her body closer, and she opens for me. Her lips part, and her tongue teases mine in a slow, sensual caress. I match her pace, absorbing it all, committing this moment to memory and savoring the feel of her in my arms again.
There’s nothing hurried about it. Nothing rushed or hidden. Honestly, I think that’s what I like most.
After a hot-as-fuck encounter in the pantry, then a massively bad misunderstanding, she’s kissing me on the couch, out in the open for everyone to see.
It’s a claiming. A claiming she initiated. And I fucking love it.
“Forgetful Joey… she’s hotter than David Bowie.”
Joey snorts, then smacks me in the arm and readjusts herself on my lap. Her hair’s a tangled mess, her lips puffy from our make-out session. Sessions? We honestly haven’t stopped kissing since the movie started.
“My turn,” she declares, sitting up and straddling my lap.
She drapes her body around me and ghosts her lips along my neck.
“Forgetful Nicky… he really wants a hickey.”
Before I can react, she latches on, biting hard and sucking the skin on my neck until my hips take control and buck from below her.
“You’re trouble,” I laugh, craning back ever so slightly in a feeble attempt to get away.
I don’t care if she marks me. Hell, I welcome it. I’m already dreaming up a design to represent her somehow. Bite marks or the shape of her mouth would be so fucking hot inked into my skin.
“Speaking of trouble.” She leans back with a salacious grin. “Do you have any weed? We could smoke before we watch Sarah Marshall.”
With a low groan, I cuddle her closer. “You’re like all my wet dreams come to life, Hot Girl.” I bury my face in her tits, which are barely restrained by the thin bralette she revealed when she stripped off her T-shirt. “We have to raincheck the toke up, though. Just until football season is over.”
Her brows shoot into her hairline, and she dismounts. After a quick readjustment of her top, she sits beside me instead.
“You’ll use illegal injectables and have Kylian alter your drug tests for those, but you draw the line at marijuana?”
I shrug and offer up the truth. “I don’t get peptide therapy to intentionally defy the rules or because I think I’m the exception. It honestly helps so much.”
Her expression softens, and she takes my hand in hers. She doesn’t lace our fingers together, but instead cradles it, tracing the ink and gently massaging each knuckle.
“How long have you had arthritis?”
Good question.
“I don’t really know. Forever, I think? I don’t remember ever not being in pain…”
I trail off and dip my chin. I’m not interested in getting into the sob story that is my early childhood.
The words are true; there was always pain.
Pain in my joints and limbs. Pain from the beatings.
I sustained multiple injuries that went untreated for years.
Bones that were never set. Ligaments and tendons that were probably torn.
A holistic doctor once told me the trauma I suffered as a child caused my rheumatoid arthritis.
I don’t completely buy into that theory. But it sure as fuck didn’t help.
Realizing I’m in my own head, I offer her an apologetic smile.
“I’ve had it as far back as I can remember.
Once I was placed with Gary and Brenda, things got better.
It still took a while to figure out the combination of foods, exercise, medications, and therapies that worked best. I wouldn’t always tell them when the pain was really bad,” I admit.
“I was worried that if they had to take me to too many appointments or if I complained too much, they would decide I wasn’t worth it. ”
She doesn’t push. She continues tracing my ink, sitting with the admission and letting me feel it. After a minute, she interlaces our fingers, then lifts our hands to kiss my knuckles.
“I don’t know much about arthritis, so my questions might be annoying…”
“You’re fine,” I assure her.
“Is the pain constant? Or is it worse at certain times?”
“It’s always there, but it definitely flares. Sometimes it’s predictable—after a game, during a storm. Other times, it flares up for no damn reason. Those are the hardest.”
“Yet you still play football.”
It’s not meant as an insult. It probably seems odd to someone who doesn’t deal with chronic pain—that I’d willingly submit myself to an activity guaranteed to make things worse.
“There’s power in choosing,” I explain. “Putting my body through the wringer and leaving it all out on the field makes me feel alive. I’m gonna hurt either way. I might as well have fun doing it.”
Her sharp inhale catches me off guard.
“I’m trying to do more of that,” she whispers.
I survey our hands as I gently nudge her. “Of what? Leaving it all out on the field?”
She scoffs and side-eyes me, obviously aware that I’m teasing her. But then her expression softens, and she audibly swallows before answering, “Feeling alive.”
She doesn’t let her confession linger or leave space for me to follow up before directing the conversation back to me.
“I like that you’re doing it on your terms and not letting the thing you love be ruined by an illness you can’t control.”
“Exactly.”
She cuddles closer and nuzzles my arm. With one fingernail, she traces up and down my bicep in a featherlight trail that almost tickles.
“Does the same line of thinking apply to your tattoos?”I nod, pressing my lips together. I hadn’t considered that before, but it makes sense.
“The process is a great distraction. It’s hypnotic when the needle is buzzing against my skin and the pain on the outside matches the ache on the inside.”
“So no weed until after the season,” she repeats, her voice laced with understanding this time.
I’m reaching for her again when a noise from the doorway snags my attention.
“There you two are,” Kylian declares, plopping down on the other side of Joey.
I huff out a little sigh of frustration. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep her to myself for long. Not this afternoon. Not ever.
“Nicky, can you—”
“Yeah, I got you,” I assure him before he can even finish that thought. I reach for the remote and click on the subtitles.
“Hi, Jo,” he murmurs, his voice so uncharacteristically not Kylian I have to hold back a snicker.
Damn. He’s got it bad. We all do, in our own way, I guess.
I watch the pair of them as they exchange a silent greeting. It’s intimate, but neither of them is trying to hide it from me.
Theoretically, this is bonkers.
But as I sit here with the girl of my dreams wedged between me and my childhood best friend, I’m surprisingly okay with it.
A few more seconds pass before Kylian stops making heart eyes at Joey and finally looks up at the screen.
“Oh, 50 First Dates. Good movie,” he notes, placing his hand on Joey’s thigh. “It’s light-years behind Forgetting Sarah Marshall in terms of satire and campiness, of course, but not bad, as far as Hawaii-based stoner films go.”
Joey stifles a laugh but reaches out to squeeze my hand. She doesn’t pull away when I interlace our fingers and rest our joined hands on her other thigh.