4. Aftercare
Chapter 4
Aftercare
Lo
O ne end of the little gold barbell floats like a bobber on a pond, except I’m not fishing, and it’s not water that it is floating in.
It’s him.
Specifically, his cum filling my bellybutton, coating my stomach, sinking into the dips and lines of me.
A deep, rough chuckle forces its way out of him, yanking my attention back.
He’s already standing, tugging his jeans up over his hips, buttons slipping through denim like this is nothing to him. Not even enough to take his pants fully off.
I blink, slow and heavy, my head still spinning, my brain foggy, my insides wrecked. Battered. Hollowed out in a way I didn’t expect. I have overthought this moment a million times and have told myself not to romanticize it, to be done with it, yet still … totally not what I expected.
“That little thing is drowning in me,” he says, almost amused.
“Yeah,” I murmur, voice raspy. I pull my knees up, curling into myself, then slide stiffly off the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet as I hurry to the bathroom to clean up.
I decide a quick shower is in order.
When I come out, he’s standing at my window, looking out toward Legacy Field.
“Good view of the stadium across the valley.”
“Close enough to see but not feel consumed by.”
He turns but doesn’t look at me and runs his hand through his hair, his biceps—hell, his whole arms are bulges, veins … Why the hell are veins hot?
“You have jumper cables?”
“There’s some down in the maintenance barn. I could get a shovel and?—”
“I’ll crash on the couch,” he says, jerking his chin toward the stairs.
The words slice sharper than they should.
Heat flashes under my skin—humiliation, regret, frustration. I don’t even know anymore.
“You’ll sleep in the bed,” I snap, my voice sharper than the wind outside. “Jesus, Kolby, I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch just because you’re being a pussy and can’t look at me. Get the hell over yourself, because you keep acting like a giant bitch baby, the whole family will be wondering what happened, and it’s none of their damn business.”
His jaw flexes like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t.
Without another word, he strips down to his boxers and drops onto the bed, stiff and resentful as hell.
I crawl in on the other side, wrapping myself in my blanket like it’s armor.
We don’t touch. Hell, we barely breathe.
* * *
Sometime during the night, I must drift because when I blink awake, it’s not so dark out, and I’m wrapped around him. Arms slung over his chest, my leg tangled over his.
His scowl is deep, even in sleep, like even resting he’s pissed at the world.
I untangle myself in a panic just as I hear the heavy tread of boots on the stairs.
Shit.
Jackson.
“Lo?” he calls out, voice groggy. “The power’s out. You up?—”
My heart jackhammers against my ribs. I whip my head toward Kolby, who’s awake now, eyes wide, body going taut.
“Closet,” I hiss.
He stares at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“Closet! Go!”
Grumbling under his breath, he grabs his clothes and scrambles across the room, squeezing into the smaller closet of the two, the one I keep all my jackets, shoes, and a broken guitar.
I yank the covers up to my chin and school my face into something that doesn’t scream, I just slept with the Kolby freaking Grimes.
Jackson appears in the doorway, messy hair, a beanie jammed down over his ears.
“You take Kolby home last night?” he asks, already surveying the room like he expects to see him somewhere.
“Yeah,” I lie smoothly, voice scratchy. “Dropped him off at the townhouses after I locked up.”
Jackson frowns. “That bad out?”
“Blizzard hit harder than they said.” I shrug. “Truck’s dead. Needs a jump.”
“I’ll get the cables,” he says, already turning toward the stairs. “You can follow me down in your Jeep.”
As soon as he’s gone, I yank the closet door open.
Kolby glares at me from behind a puff jacket and a rolled-up sleeping bag, his hair a wild mess, his jeans half-buttoned.
“You’re going to have to sneak your ass to the Jeep,” I whisper. “You’re riding hidden. Congratulations, you’re cargo now.”
* * *
Kolby’s tucked behind the back seat, hunched low, his broad shoulders barely fitting. He’s shoved a ratty old blanket over himself like it’s gonna make him invisible. If Jackson even glances in my rear window at a stop sign, it’s game over.
I throw the Jeep into drive and ease out onto the road, heart thudding hard enough it echoes in my ears.
The first mile is pure hell.
Jackson taps Kolby’s taillights ahead of me through the blowing snow. I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. Every time the Jeep bounces over a patch of ice, I hear Kolby shift in the back—heavy breathing, the brush of his jacket against the vinyl, the faintest grunt when he tries to wedge himself deeper into the floor space.
I sneak a glance in the mirror again, catching a flash of his dark eyes under the edge of the blanket.
“You’re not exactly subtle back there,” I hiss under my breath, careful not to move my mouth too much in case Jackson can somehow read lips from that distance. You never know .
Kolby shifts again, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing how far he can push me. “Maybe you shouldn’t have made me hide like a goddamn kidnapped mascot,” he mutters, voice rough from sleep and something sharper.
Heat creeps up my neck.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been naked in my bed when my brother showed up,” I snap back, barely audible.
“I had on boxers,” he snaps back.
“Fewer clothes than when you banged my head on the edge of my bed.”
Then, a low rumble of a laugh, muffled by the blanket, and it pisses me off.
I squeeze the steering wheel harder. “You’re an asshole,” I mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.
Behind me, he shifts again—this time less annoyed, more amused. Like he’s settling in for the ride. Like he likes that he’s crawling under my skin.
Jackson’s truck turns down toward the townhouse, tires skidding a little in the fresh drifts. I slow to follow, the whole Jeep rattling as I drive over mounds of ice.
“The fuck,” he growls.
“Jesus, Kolby, do you want to get caught?” I hiss.
“Depends,” he says under his breath. “What happens if we do?”
I shoot a glare into the rearview mirror. “You get murdered. I get … grounded?”
He chuckles again—deep, low, rough—and something wicked unfurls inside me.
“Just … shut it. I’m going to get out and walk to your door with Jackson. You sneak out then.” I unbuckle and slide out.
* * *
“Just drop his key through the mail slot and text him. He’s probably got company.” I tug at his jacket. “Let’s go. I have shit to do that doesn’t include babysitting a Knight.”
“I’m driving. You were all over the damn road.”
“Not if I get there first,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry toward the Jeep, knowing he’s far too competitive not to try to beat me.
Normally, I would give it my all, but right now, bits are battered, ego is bruised, and I’m pretty certain that I’m losing my damn mind.
* * *
Turning down Main, Jackson elbows me. “Why so quiet?”
“Got woken up before I was ready.”
“Take one of those power naps you love now while you can.”
Fat chance, but at least this way I can grapple with myself.
Like, I knew what I was doing. I made the choice. I told myself it was just a hookup, just a transaction, a trade—skin for silence—for finally getting the damn weight of it off my back. And technically? I got what I asked for. I’m not a virgin anymore. Mission accomplished.
So, why does it feel like I lost something instead of winning?
I wanted this. I wanted it. I didn’t want the big fairy tale. I didn’t want love songs or promises stitched into moonlight. I just wanted it over with. Clean. Quick. Done.
But it didn’t have to be so cold. I mean, there’s no way it’s like that for everyone.
It didn’t have to feel like he was done with me before it even started. He knew what he was doing, and I pretended I did, too. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s easier to fake wanting nothing when you don’t know what it’s like to want everything you’re not allowed to ask for.
He gave me exactly what I said I wanted. He was rough, raw, which, to me, was pure passion … and then unbothered. I hate how much I loved how he touched me, like he couldn’t help it. I hated that, for a second—just one breathless, broken second—I thought maybe he felt it, too.
And now I hate that I feel like Vicki, a high school friend who was convinced that losing her virginity in a corn field at our HoCo afterparty to Tony C, who he said was breaking up with Tonya, because he loved her .
I thought she was an asshole for screwing another girl’s boyfriend, but unlike the rest of the school, I thought he was more at fault—he was the one in a relationship.
I socked him in the nose, bloodied it, too, when I heard him whispering the words Sticky Vicki to his friends.
I’d do it again.
Sex between two people who agreed it was just that is perfect, just like I thought it would be.
I had sex, was fingered, oral, tits—he loved my tits—devoured, V-card gone.
The next asshole I decide to get naked and sweaty with will be on the same level of special as I will hold Grimes to. And he’s going to be in the prone position, and I’ll be riding him … owning his ass.
His ass … fat, muscular, and no doubt wears my mark. The kind that doesn’t wash off in the shower.
I decide right here and now, I’m done mind-fucking myself.
Over it.
Then I mentally high-five myself because I actually orgasmed my first time. I mean, it wasn’t by penetration. That shit was not comfy …
We pass Sydney’s shop, Sugar Rush, and I see Boone’s SUV parked in front.
“He’s doing well,” Jackson answers my question without my asking.
“Had he not been there?” I can’t even verbalize my worries; something about speaking them makes me feel like I’m daring the stars.
“You saw them at the wedding. They’re good.”
I glance in the rearview at the old firehouse. The parking lot is packed. “Are there more vehicles there than yesterday?”
“Gonna be even more.” He glances over at me. “With Riley at Hart’s place now, you don’t need to be up on the hill all alone either.”
Hell no. “I have my taser, pepper spray, and a baseball bat.”
He exhales and gives a slight shake of his head. “You don’t even have a gun, Lo.”
“Do you know our cousins? They have no boundaries. Imagine them jumping out of my closet, spooking me when I’m armed?” I huff. “Could have popped a cap in your ass today, too.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Mmhmm,” I mimic.
When we pull in, Dad and Grandpa Jack are plowing the parking lot, and I see smoke billowing out of the brewery chimney. Dad started the fireplace.
Jackson pulls my Jeep right up to my little porch. “Go get your pretty on. I’ll park your ride where it’s out of their way.”
So, that’s what I do.
* * *
The generator is running the place. Hopefully, the power will be up soon. If not, we’re good. No sense in worrying about what I can’t control. Moving on.
I finish wiping down the last table—a few still feel sticky. I assume it’s either from Maggie’s attention to detail, being as it is specifically when the players are around, or drool … perhaps both. Then I step back and look around, wondering what I’m missing … always wondering what I’m missing.
I head back to the bar, grab the battered notebook, flip to the opening list, and set to walk around and check boxes off my list.
Opening Check List
Sweep floors—twice—no footprints near the fireplace—check.
Wipe down all tables—check under edges, too—check
Polish bar top—no smudges, no sticky spots—check
Test sound system—fireplace speaker crackled yesterday—have Jackson or Dad check it out.
Double-check TVs—all set to Knights’ game, volume staggered—check
Firewood stacked by fireplace—extra basket—check
Fireplace lit—cranked and lower when the place is packed—check
New banners hung—no sagging corners—wait for Mom
Keg lines flushed and chilled—check
Restock pint glasses—no fogged ones—check
Update tap handles—Wait for Riley to decide which we need to highlight and put on special.
Bathrooms checked—full soap, extra paper towels under the cabinet—check
Refill sugar and creamer bar—even if no one uses it—check
Pretzel trays ready—keep near the kitchen pass, Mickey’s orders—check
Solar-powered backup lights charged just in case—over fireplace + back booths—check
Cash drawers counted and set—check
First round of food orders prepped—Mick did it last night—check
A little spark of satisfaction flickers through me.
Order.
Routine.
Things I can control.
I live for this. The feeling of completion, of knowing what’s supposed to happen next.
If I focus on the list, on the napkins being folded just right and the glasses lining up straight on the shelves, I don’t have to think about the mess curling low in my gut. I don’t have to think about Kolby Grimes. I don’t have to think about how cold it felt afterward, how final it was, how stupid I was to believe it would feel like anything else.
It was a transaction.
A checkbox.
First time—done.
I’m the one who wanted it that way, remember?
No promises. No dreams. Just get rid of it.
Mom, Great Aunt Maggie—whom Mags was named after—Aunt Tessa, and Aunt Phoebe walk in, all carrying huge pans of food that they didn’t have to make but did.
“Riley here yet?” Aunt Maggie whispers.
“ She’ll be here around three.” I nod toward the kitchen. “Go hide the evidence. You’re turning our business into a charity buffet for starving millionaires for the second day in a row. I’ll let Mickey know we can’t pay him his meager wages this week because …” I stop when Aunt Maggie’s face falls. “I’m joking.”
“Is money tight? Do you need some help?”
“Aunt Maggie, we make our money on the bar.” I laugh. “Mickey won’t cook anything but the best, and we will never charge city prices.”
She smiles. “The food for the boys is here with your cousins and Jackson,” she whispers. “Izzy told me you girls call them commandos. They’re going to have a meeting at the field, and then come have lunch while the team practices. The millionaires can pay or go on Legacy’s tab.”
Mom kisses my cheek. “Where do you need me?”
“Izzy made banners. I’ll hang them, you tell me if they’re straight.”
Standing in the middle of the space, I turn in a slow small circle to make sure everything is perfect, and of course it is.