Chapter 7
LOCKE
“Earth to Whitlocke.”
Fingers snap in front of my face, and I pull my attention from the woman behind the bar for the first time since we sat down.
“Sorry,” I say to Lawson. “What was that?”
“I asked if your grandparents still have that black-and-white TV.”
“Uh, I have no idea. Why?”
“Wanted to use it for our slumber party.” He juts his chin out toward Fox, who looks like he regrets agreeing to this but is far too polite to say so.
“You were serious about that?” Keller asks.
“When have you ever known me to joke around?”
“Um, all the fucking time. You’re literally one big joke.”
Lawson narrows his eyes. “Screw you, Kells.”
“Thanks, buddy, but you’re not my type. Your mother, on the other hand…”
Lawson launches over the table at Keller, who just laughs, sipping on his drink like his teammate isn’t trying to maim him.
Hutch yanks Lawson back down beside him, shaking his head at them. “Would you two knock it off? We don’t need to go getting kicked out of Top Shelf.”
“I’m with Hutchy on this. We like this place way too much for that,” Hayes says, backing up the captain.
“Then tell Keller to leave my mother out of this.” Lawson flips off the man in question, and he doesn’t react in the slightest. “That woman is a damn angel and would never go for the likes of him.”
Keller snorts. “Let me meet her and we’ll see about that.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Fox pats Lawson’s back, trying to calm him down. It’s rare he ever gets fired up, but anytime Keller brings up his mother, it’s always like this. I swear Keller feeds off the animosity, which is a whole other bag to unpack with that guy.
“Is, uh, everything okay over here?”
I stiffen at the voice and hope like hell nobody notices.
Slowly, I turn to find Nessa standing at the end of the table.
That damn braid is still sitting over her shoulder, and I still want to wrap it around my fist and tug at it.
I remember how much she likes that. How much she wanted my hands in her hair, pulling softly.
That little noise she made every time I did it.
I clear my throat, trying to repress those memories before I do something stupid, like pop a boner with my teammates right here. With Hutch right here.
Don’t look at her. Keep your eyes down. Don’t you dare try to sneak a peek.
I repeat it again, then again. Hell, I even squeeze my eyes shut—anything to keep thoughts of her at bay.
“We’re good,” Hutch tells his sister. “Sorry for the commotion. Won’t happen again.”
There is absolutely no mistaking the threat in his words: Straighten up or else.
“Oh. Okay,” she says quietly, and I can’t help myself—I look.
I peek right over at her, and all those thoughts from our night together come racing back like I never shut them out at all. And I guess I didn’t. I’ve thought about her every day since I woke up with her gone. Something always reminded me of her.
I think it’s worse now, knowing who she is and having her so close by. I want to talk to her again. I want to know her. I want to ask her why she left. I want to see how she is since the divorce was finalized. Want to make sure she’s okay. I want to touch her. Kiss her. Taste her.
Fuck, do I want to taste her. It’s been much, much too long.
As if she can feel my eyes on her, she glances my way for a split second.
It’s enough to see it—that spark. That same one she had when we met.
The same one that had me offering to walk a strange woman back to her hotel when the last thing I should have been doing the night before a midday game was staying out later.
The one that had me inviting her back to my hotel room, something I’d never done in all my years on the road.
The one that had me pressing her to my bed and giving in to every wicked thought running through my mind.
The one that still makes me want to do that.
“I’ll grab you a few waters,” she offers to no one in particular before practically running away.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
That’s how many seconds I last before I mutter a pitiful excuse and race away myself.
I head down the darkened hallway, hiding away in the bathroom even though I don’t have to go.
I just need a break. From what? I’m not sure.
Pretending, maybe? Acting like I don’t want to kiss the hell out of Nessa?
Because I really fucking want to. Would Hutch really be that mad?
I think about how I’d react if one of my sisters were dating a teammate, and I realize…
Yes.
And it’s not because I don’t love those guys like my brothers. I truly do. It’s everything else that comes with it.
What if something goes wrong? Who would I side with?
My sister or my brother who has my back on the ice?
Could I ever trust him again if he hurt her?
Could I resist beating the shit out of him?
Would I need to call up my agent and demand a trade to keep from going to prison?
Would I be able to live with the knowledge that the guy who is supposed to have my back has my sister on hers?
Fuck, that sounds so damn crude, but it’s the truth. It’s exactly what I would think, and I have no doubt the same would go through Hutchinson’s mind, too. He might not be as close with Nessa as I am with my sisters, but it still wouldn’t be right, no matter how much I wish it could be.
And that’s just it. It’s not right. Being with Nessa would never work.
Not just because she’s related to Hutch, but because we are in two different places in our lives.
She just got out of a messy divorce and is trying to figure things out.
I’m not looking to get tangled up in anything that could jeopardize my season, especially not when it could be my last with the Serpents.
Even without the Hutch factor, it would never work anyway.
So, I have to stop thinking about her. About her long, silky blonde hair that felt like heaven between my fingers. About that freckle just to the left of her belly button that I traced with my tongue. About how she tastes like cherries, which I fucking love. And about how her pussy was?—
No.
I push that last thought from my mind. If I let myself go there, I’m not walking out of this bathroom for at least another ten minutes, and I’ve already been in here too long. I really don’t need someone coming to look for me and finding me mid-freak-out.
I do what I’ve done for half a year: I carefully place every memory and thought of Nessa into a box, pack it tight, seal it shut, and put it back on the shelf where I’ve kept it all this time.
I pump a few squirts of soap into my palm and wash my hands, all while staring into the mirror, chastising myself.
Don’t think about Nessa.
Don’t think about Nessa.
Do not fucking think about Nessa!
When I’m absolutely sure I’ve gotten her out of my mind, I wrench the door open and turn right, determined to go have a good time with my teammates.
Apparently, the lighting difference between the bathroom and the hallway is significant because I definitely don’t see the person before I run into them.
“Shit,” I say, reaching out to steady them.
The second my fingers touch skin, I know.
Nessa.
I stare down at her, taking in her wide green eyes and the pout of the lips I just promised myself I would stop fantasizing about.
“Gavin,” she says breathlessly.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why’d she have to say my name? Why’d she have to look up at me like that? All those thoughts I so gingerly placed into the box tumble back out, racing to the forefront of my mind, and all I can think about is kissing her.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, love.”
Her eyes sparkle at the endearment, just like they did before.
“S-Sorry,” she says, and I barely hold in my groan as she rolls her tongue along her bottom lip. “I didn’t see you.”
Her eyes slide to where I’m holding on to her, to where I can feel her skin burning beneath my palm. I let her go and step back, putting much-needed distance between us.
“It’s fine.”
The words are clipped, though not because I’m mad.
I’m just trying that damn hard to hold myself together.
We stand there awkwardly for I’m not even sure how long, but it is long enough for my fingers to start twitching with the urge to touch her again.
My body to vibrate with need. It’s long enough that I know it’s too long, and I’m seconds away from losing control.
Nessa must feel it too, because she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s her tell. She’s nervous. Anxious. Unsure. Whatever you want to call it.
She clears her throat. “I should… I need to…” She points behind me toward the bathrooms.
“Right. Sure.”
I move right, and she does too. I move left. She does too. She sighs, then moves again. This time I stand still as she brushes by me.
I don’t know how it happens—I’m not sure if it’s an unconscious effort on my part or what—but suddenly her wrist is trapped in my grip and I’m keeping her from walking away. I drop my eyes to where I’m holding on to her, right to her naked ring finger.
I swallow at the sight. “You took it off.”
Her head snaps up, and I catch her gaze.
“I never put it back on,” she whispers.
I don’t know what it is about those words, but they’re my complete undoing. In a blur, Nessa is pressed up against the wall, and I’m there. Right there. My thigh is pushed between hers. Her lips are inches away, so fucking close I can feel the strangled breaths she’s taking.
It reminds me of having her in my hotel room bed back in New York. The way I fell against her and how soft she was beneath me. The noises she made when I trailed my lips just below her ear. How she looked up at me like I was the only person in the world.
Like she is right now.
Someone ambles down the hallway, and I press closer, shielding her from them as they pass by with a quiet, “Sorry.”