Chapter 11
Ivy
With Gray out of town, I find myself struggling with an excess of restless energy. I don’t know what to do with myself. And, really, I should be figuring it out. I’m a college grad without a job. I know what I want to do, but I dread telling my dad, who’s been footing my bills until now.
Skin twitching and gut clenching, I soothe myself the only way I know how.
Hours later, the house smells of golden, buttery-sweet goodness. I have enough donuts to feed Gray’s entire team. Which sucks since they’re not around to feed.
Fi arrives just as I finish glazing the last batch.
“Hermey, Rudolph, and Yukon Cornelius, what the hell smells so good?” Like a tracking dog, she stalks into the kitchen and nearly sticks her nose into a tray of donuts. “Is that bacon on the top?”
“Yup. Honey-chili bacon. I’m trying to break out from the standard maple bacon.”
She picks up a donut and takes a bite, groaning as she does. “You done good, Iv.”
I select a raspberry-filled with a toasted marshmallow topping. The flavor combination is reminiscent of peanut butter and jelly, but not as heavy and more creamy. Fi steals a bit of it and groans again.
“Hey,” I say with a laugh. “Don’t go getting me sick.”
“Bah. I’m not sick any longer, and if you were going to get sick, it would have already happened. Ooh...what’s that one?”
“Christmas donut. Eggnog flavor with a burnt rum-sugar crust like you’d get on a crème br?lée.”
“Yum.” Fi continues to munch on her bacon donut and speaks around a mouthful of food. “So what’s with all the donuts? You channeling Mom?”
Hedging from answering Fiona, I reach for the bottle of red wine on the counter. “Want a glass?” I ask instead.
She eyes me for a moment then shrugs. “Red wine with donuts? Why not?”
I don’t talk until we both have a full glass of wine. “It relaxes me.”
“Of course it does. It’s in our blood. I mean, I hate it but...” She grins, her cheeks plumping, before becoming serious. “Seriously, Ivy, why are you cringing like a guilty convict over these donuts?”
I take a sip of wine and glance away. “I realized today that I bake—or fry in this case—best when I’m tense.”
The kitchen wall clock ticks away as Fi watches me. “You fried a lot, Ivy Weed.”
“I know.” Before me is a sea of donuts, each perfectly frosted. “I’ve always thought that I should join Mom because I was good at baking. I like working with my hands, making pastries, and coming up with new flavors. I like feeding people. But lately, I’ve started to think about how I want to live. The thing is, Fi, I want to be excited.”
“And baking doesn’t excite you?” She glances at the donuts.
“It inspires me, makes me feel good. But running a bakery? I hated it.”
Guilt grips me as I confess. Because I did hate that part. I’d hated getting up before dawn, always being on my feet, worrying about the store and customers. Before, I’d pushed that concern to the back of my mind. But now it’s too close to ignore.
“So don’t do it.”
Setting my glass down, I start to wipe away a glop of honey glaze on the counter. Fi watches me do it.
“If you don’t want to run one of Mom’s stores,” she asks carefully. “What is it that you want to do? Not that you have to know or anything.”
My fingers curl around the damp rag, and I toss it aside. “I don’t know.”
But I do. I just can’t seem to voice what I want because it sounds too crazy. And I’m not ready to face it. I take a large gulp of my wine, letting the mellow smoothness warm my blood. I feel foolish, frustrated. Doubt dances over me with sticky feet. Maybe this is just a silly flight of fancy.
“Mom and Dad are going to think I’ve lost it.”
“Hey,” Fi says softly. “I’ve changed my major about six times in two years.”
“You’re a sophomore. You have time. And you love decorating. Why not do that?”
Absently, she nods. “Yeah, maybe.”
For a moment, we’re silent. Then Fi sets her glass down and reaches for another donut.
“I’m gonna regret you,” she says to the donut. “But I can’t seem to care.” Her gaze finds mine. “I’m calling a frat boy I know to pick the bulk of these up before we go into a sugar coma. Then we’re going to celebrate my birthday in style, which will include drinking more wine and telling our deep dark secrets to each other.”
“Fi.” I’m trying not to laugh. “That basically sums up all our nights together.”
“Does not! What we drink and eat always varies.”
I grin and start packing up the donuts.
Much, much later, we find ourselves sprawled on my bed among the copious throw pillows. The wine has been ditched in favor of mojitos, and my head is swimming.
“Red wine makes me sleepy,” I complain.
“It’s my birthday. You can’t fall asleep.” Fi rolls over and glares at me.
“Mmm-hmmm.” My lids grow heavy. I start to drift off, but that strange restless feeling returns as soon as my mind wanders. I think I might be coming down with a cold. But that’s not what’s bugging me now. “Fi?”
“What?” she mumbles, her face stuffed into a pillow.
“Can a person...I don’t know...be oversexed when they aren’t having any sex?”
The instant the words are out of my mouth my face flames and I want to call them back. As it is, they hang over our heads, dancing around like mocking pixies as Fi’s mouth drops open.
Her stare drills into me, and I resist the urge to squirm. Before I break, she shrugs, all casual as if I haven’t blurted out something ridiculous. “Explain.”
I don’t want to. My big mouth has gotten me in enough trouble. But mojitos have made me warm and loosened my tongue.
“God, Fi, where to begin? I think about sex. All the time now.”
About cocks. Pushing into me. Filling me up. Sliding into my mouth. Hell.
“My breasts feel heavy, my nipples...let’s not talk about those.” It brings back the restlessness, makes them tingle, and I cuddle the throw pillow closer.
It doesn’t shut me up, though.
“I ache. So much that my lower belly hurts. Hell, my freaking thighs feel hot.” Annoyed now, I slap a hand against the mattress. “I find myself dreaming of running my thumbs along those grooves on a guy’s abdomen. The ones formed by those muscles right over their hips. You know the ones? That form a V.” My mouth actually waters thinking about them now.
“Oh,” says Fi in an expansive voice, “I know them well.” She grins, all cheeky, her brows waggling. “They bracket Victory Lane on the road to Cocksville.”
“Yesterday,” I tell her on a sigh. “I ended up staring at a nipple for ten minutes.”
Fi chokes as a laugh breaks out. “A nipple?”
“Yeah,” I say, despondent. “There was this picture of a shirtless guy in Vogue—”
“Oh, a guy’s nipple.”
I bite my lower lip. “I’d probably get turned on by the sight of a woman’s nipple too. I mean, boobs are sexual and all that.”
Fi mutters something under her breath before glancing at me. “Never figured you’d be the type to get enthralled by a dude’s nipple.”
“Apparently so.” Frowning, I pick at the hem of my shirt. “You know, they’re just so tiny and hard, like those rivets on jeans?”
I ignore her snort. “And I wonder how one would feel against my tongue. Would the guy like it if I licked him there? Would he make a little groan—”
“All right there, Little Miss Spanish Fly, I get the picture.”
Sighing, I turn to my side to face her. “Fi, this is serious! It’s a problem. I’m hurting here!”
Her cheeks plump on a grin. “Oh, I hear you, Iv. Though I’d say this is more an issue of being undersexed rather than oversexed.”
“Under, over, the point is I’m horny.”
“Then go out and have some sex, already.”
“I can’t.” It’s a pathetic wail. “I’m not made that way, Fiona. I can’t screw just anyone. I need—”
Damn it all, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. My stomach turns with the thought of nameless sex, even as my breath quickens with the thought of a hard, male body pressing against me.
“I need to like the guy,” I mumble. That’s the shittiest part about it. I want sex so badly my teeth ache. And yet I don’t have the guts to go out and get it.
“Hmm...” Ice clinks as Fi swirls her glass. “You know who you should talk to about this? Gray.”
“What?” Heat rushes my face. “Please. No.”
I wave, my hand nearly slapping my nose in the process. “No way, Fi. Do you want me to die of embarrassment?”
Gray would either smirk and give me the same shit as Fi, or he’d be horrified. Gray has a startling tendency to get prudish on me. God help me if Fi suggests what I think she will. I can’t think about that. I won’t.
“Why not? He knows all about sex. He’s hot as fuck. Maybe he could help you out, give you a little friends-with-benefits relief.”
She went there.
“Fi! How can you say that?”
“Ow! Volume, Ivy. My damn ears are ringing.”
Grinding my teeth as my face bursts into flames, I manage to speak. “I cannot believe you said that.”
Did the heat come on or something? I’m going to burn up from embarrassment. Maybe melt into the bed.
“Oh please. He’d do it, you know he would. Everyone knows the guy will hump any hot girl that looks his way.”
“Stop. Gray isn’t some cheap manslut.”
Never again will I let myself or anyone else belittle him.
“He’s not?” She doesn’t even try to hide her sarcasm.
“No. He’s my friend, and I’ll thank you not to talk about him that way.”
I hug my pillow tight. “Never mind that friends-with-bennies has got to be one of the stupidest ideas in history. It never works. Not,” I add, “that I’d even consider it. I don’t...” A breath puffs out of me. “I’m not going there with Gray.”
Just the thought of sex with Gray... Nope, not going to even entertain the idea. Sex with him would only lead to trouble. I’m a relationship gal. And I know it would become too much for me, sharing that sort of intimacy and not having Gray as more than a friend. I cling to that fact like I would a life raft.
Her shrug is careless. “Well, then maybe he can hook you up with one of his hot friends.”
“I’m not having sex with one of Gray’s friends.” Everything within me revolts at the idea. It would ruin what I have with Gray. Wouldn’t it? And besides, I don’t want one of his friends.
“So you don’t want a hookup, or to ask Gray to help you out or set you up.” Fi glares at me. “What do you want?”
An answer pops into my head before my booze-addled brain can squash it down. I bite my lips together and refuse to say it. Again, the horrible, squirmy, we-need-some-lovin’ heat flares between my legs.
“I just want to feel like myself again.”
“Good luck with that. Horny doesn’t just up and go because you ask it nicely.”
“Great.” I lift my hands in irritation. “So I what...?”
Fi laughs at me, the jerk. “Become real familiar with your hand.”
“Pillow,” I correct without thinking.
“What?” Her eyes are wide, her smile scandalized.
“Nothing. I said nothing.” Fucking booze. I’m never drinking again.
“Sure you didn’t, Miss Hump-and-Pump.”
The throw pillow flies out of my hand and whacks her face.
“Eew,” Fi shouts. “This had better not be the pillow!”
“Better smell it and see.”
Fi’s answer is to smother me with the pillow and the night devolves from there.
For the first time before a game, I’m nervous. Usually I’m pumped up, anticipation and adrenaline surging through my body. I get off on it, like good sex, only with a fine edge of aggression to sharpen the feeling.
Out on the field, I can let myself go. Let out all the anger, hurt, frustration of life. And yet it never really feels like rage. It’s a battle, sure, but there’s love too. I fucking love this game. The intensity. The pain. The mind games. Nowhere else do I feel more alive than when I’m playing, my body and mind working at full tilt to obtain my goals.
I’m not gonna lie; I have a hard-on for football. I get totally jacked on game day.
Which is why I’m pissed now. Because I’m not jacked. Excitement does not run through my veins. Instead, there’s a boulder in my stomach and invisible hands clutching my neck.
Though the crowd is roaring their excitement, and the air almost vibrates with their enthusiasm, everything feels off. My teammates aren’t joking like they usually do.
Rolondo is quiet and pacing the sidelines as they prepare to sing the national anthem. The guys have tense faces. Cal Alder is sitting on a bench, his skin pasty and sweaty, though Coach doesn’t seem too worried that our starting quarterback looks like death warmed over.
I swear the stink of defeat hangs over us, and we haven’t even started the game.
My fingers are ice-cold as the anthem is sung. By the time a few of our defensive linemen trot out to do the coin toss, I’m ready to scream.
From the corner of my eye, I see Alder scramble over the bench. He pukes into a half-filled ice bucket, and a few guys jump back.
Cursing, I jog over to him as he throws up again.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he glances up at me. “You gonna make it?” I ask.
His expression is blank. “Yup.”
“Here.” I grab a Gatorade and hand it to him. “Refuel and wash your mouth. I’m not smelling that when you call plays.”
He doesn’t smile but takes the bottle and drinks deep. On the field, the kickoff is already underway. Our guy Taylor manages to catch the ball and run to the forty. It’s almost time to go to work.
“What’s the deal?” I ask Cal. “You sick?”
Those frosty eyes of his don’t blink. “You my nurse?”
“I’m your fucking teammate and tight end,” I snap, annoyed as shit. “So answer the fucking question.”
Cal’s tight expression eases. He sets his bottle down and stands. “Right as rain, Grayson.”
Well, fucking great. Sure, whatever. I’m about to yell at him to give me the truth, when Dex walks up. He’s got his helmet in hand and his dark hair is already sticking up with sweat. He takes a long look at Cal then nods. “Stage fright.”
Cal’s eyes go a little wide, but he nods too. “Every time.”
“You get over it?” Dex asks as though this is all just fine and dandy.
“Once I begin to play, yeah.”
“Good enough for me.” Dex puts on his helmet as Cal heads toward our offensive coach.
I just stare after him as I put my helmet on too. “It’s a little freaky how well you read people, Big D.”
Dex’s eyes crinkle behind his face mask. “It’s a gift. And a curse.”
I can’t respond because the whistle has blown.
“Gentlemen.” Coach steps closer, his voice booming yet steady. “I’ve already said everything there is to say. Let’s get `er done!”
“Red Dogs!” we all shout as one. We always do. But this feels rote.
In the huddle we’re subdued. Fucking subdued. Intolerable.
“Hey,” I shout over the noise of the crowd. “With sufficient thrust, even pigs fly.”
They look at me like I’ve grown another head.
“What the fuck, G?” Diaz shouts back with a confused snort.
“We gonna make those pigs fly.” I nod toward the defense taking their positions. “When we knock the shit out of them.”
The guys start to smile but our old spirit isn’t quite there.
Cal’s head snaps up. There’s a gleam in his icy eyes that none of us have seen before. It’s like he’s flicked an internal switch and it’s lighting him up from the inside. “We’re going to win. Because we fucking own this game.”
He isn’t Drew. Never will be. He doesn’t have a shit-eating grin or a cocky attitude. But he has something else: a quiet authority that demands respect.
We all seem to feel it in our bones. Because suddenly we’re all grinning. Energy ripples over the huddle, making us squeeze closer together, rumble with agreement. My old friends, anticipation and adrenaline, return with a vengeance, drawing my balls up tight and lifting the hairs on the back of my neck.
Cal looks over us, his voice stronger than I’ve ever heard it as he calls the play. He finishes with a sharp “Go Dogs!”
Which we echo. And then break. At the line, a defensive back snarls at me, trying to intimidate, talking shit I don’t bother listening to. I just grin. Because I’m about to smoke his ass. Game fucking on.