Chapter 15
NOVA
There’s nothing like the feeling of losing yourself to your passion.
Since the premiere, I’ve started a few pieces but haven’t finished anything new. I get nearly done, then can’t bring myself to complete it, as if it can’t be bad if I haven’t declared it finished.
Even though Annie said she loved the pieces, I can’t drown out the tiny voice that says I let her down in some vague way.
An unknown number pops up on my call display while I’m painting in the garage. Harlan and Mari offered to give me a room inside, but I like having a separate space from the rest of the house.
I turn my music off to answer. “Hello?”
“Nova.”
“Yes?” The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it.
“This is Raegan Madani. Little Queen,” she goes on, like I don’t know exactly who she is. “Annie gave me your number.”
“Great,” is all I can say through the surprise.
“I’m playing a club in Denver next week, and I thought you could help me out. I want a mural for behind the stage. A smaller version of what you did for the Kodiaks. But I’m on a timeline.”
Little Queen is a huge deal, and the fact that she remembered me and reached out personally blows my mind. It would be good to have more money coming in. Plus, it’s great exposure.
“Can I get back to you?”
“By the end of the day.”
After I click off, I survey the garage.
At the premiere, it sucked to have people disparaging my work in front of me.
Can I handle taking another chance?
The door to the house opens, and Mari steps into the garage.
“Hey. Have you seen my winter coat?” She frowns and crosses to a stack of Rubbermaid bins in one corner of the huge garage.
“You stuffed your coat in there?” I say, disbelieving.
“Last year, I was so happy for winter to be done I never wanted to see it again,” she admits. “What’s new with you?”
“Well… I just got a call from this big music producer to do a piece for her upcoming show.”
“Wow.” Mari blinks.
“I don’t know if I should do it. It’s last minute, but I want to make sure she’s happy with it.”
“If it’s last minute, it sounds like you’d be doing her a favor,” Mari points out.
“You’re right. It’s just hard to put myself out there again.”
My sister’s smile fades.
“You know, I came downstairs and saw Harlan watching this.” She holds out her phone.
On it is a video of some guys playing ball on a familiar background.
It takes me a minute to realize it’s one of the courts at Kodiak Camp.
And one of the guys playing is Clay.
My chest tightens as I watch him weave through the bodies for the basket, going in for a layup.
A minute later, there’s a finger roll.
As he jogs back, I catch a smile on his face while Miles fist-bumps him.
He’s playing for the first time in months.
“This is good, isn’t it?” Mari says softly, and I blink up at her as I pass the phone back.
“It’s good.”
He’s getting his mojo back. Maybe I need a little of that, too.
My sister rips the lid off the bin and rifles through it. “Ahah! Got you.” She lifts a parka in one triumphant hand.
She heads back to the house, pausing on the landing to glance around. “It’s going to get cold in here before long. You should come inside to work.”
But I’m already typing out a text to Raegan Madani.
The club is throbbing, the music pulsing through my shoes.
“You could’ve warned me you were going to do this!” Brooke hollers, wrapping both arms around me.
“Got to keep some surprises in life,” I call back as I toss my head back and forth.
Earlier today, I got in a hair appointment to have my faded blonde dyed neon pink.
It gave me renewed optimism and energy, even before Brooke and I wound up three drinks in at the club.
At the DJ booth, Little Queen spins.
My art forms the backdrop: three abstract panels with swirling gold florals. It felt liberating to create them, and I’m so proud of myself for doing it.
Now, she flips both middle fingers toward one of the VIP booths. Some businessmen in dark suits fill the booth, one standing head and shoulders above the rest.
Brooke laughs. “Is that Harrison King? I thought they were married.”
He lifts a glass in her direction, and she stares him down.
“They are,” I say biting my cheek.
“Yum. I always wondered how married couples keep it fresh.”
I remember hearing in the media that between his family and business and her past, they had some pretty heavy stuff going on.
It doesn’t look heavy from here.
Brooke sways along with me. She’s dressed in a short black jumper and sky-high heels. Her eyes sparkle. Her maroon lipstick and the braids swinging down her back give her a chic vamp vibe.
I lift the camera and tilt it down toward me, adjusting my silver halter top to push my boobs up and together for maximum cleavage and fluffing my newly-dyed hair.
Click.
“You’re hot. There are any number of guys who would love to hook up with you,” Brooke points out. “You’ve been on a break so long. Don’t you think you should stop waiting?”
I glance down at my phone.
Nova: Saw you playing ball at Kodiak Camp. How’d it feel?
Grumpy Baller: Like I’m rusty as hell :)
We’ve been texting the past week since I got back from LA.
It feels good to talk to him. Right, even, as if my world was never fully on its axis when we weren’t updating each other on our days and teasing back and forth.
Brooke lifts the phone from my fingers and I grab for it, but she holds it away. “What’s the problem?” she shouts over the music.
I huff out a breath. “The problem is I’m still in it with him,” I holler back.
Since the other day, all I can think about is Clay. He’s still the only person I want to share every high with, every low. The one whose smile I miss at the end of a long day.
I’ve watched the video of him playing at Kodiak Camp a dozen times. My reaction is more than the teasing I’ve shared with Clay.
Arousal wraps around me like a silken rope twisting me in its grasp.
He looks good, and I know exactly how good it feels to have every inch of that body on mine.
Brooke holds out my phone with a half smile. “Then why’re you here with me? A girl’s got to get hers somewhere.”
I take it back, staring at the text conversation with Clay.
As if I’m conjuring him from thin air, a message comes through.
Grumpy Baller: Where are you tonight? Playing my avatar again?
Nova: You wish
I click to the picture Brooke and I took, the sexy one. On impulse, I attach it to a text message, and before I lose my nerve, I hit Send.
Here’s to putting yourself out there.
We keep dancing, and I’m starting to wonder if that was a dumb idea when the response comes back.
Grumpy Baller: Can’t blame me
Heat strokes through me.
I’m definitely flirting with Clay.
And he’s flirting with me.
Grumpy Baller: I miss it
Nova: Basketball or being with me?
Grumpy Baller: Yes
Well, damn.
“So, I have to show you something.” Brooke wraps an arm around my neck. “On a break or not, you can’t let this hotness go to waste.”
She leads me across the room toward the bar, where I look up and my smile melts away.
Miles.
Rookie.
Clay.
It’s a row of massive, attractive men with my favorite in the center.
I could back away, or I could take Brooke’s advice and ride this wave of anticipation.
I wedge myself between two of them. I step on the low railing around the base of the bar and boost myself up so my ass is perched on the edge.
“Hello, boys. Miles. Rookie.” My voice is drowned out by the music, but they get the idea.
“I’m not a rookie anymore.”
“What do they call you?”
“Rookie,” chorus Miles and Clay.
I grin and Rookie shrugs.
“You’ll earn a name,” Miles offers. “When we say so.”
I’m above Clay’s eye level, and it’s a total trip. He’s wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and open at the collar, revealing so much tantalizing muscle and skin and ink.
His gaze runs over me from my lips down to my toes in a line so hot I feel like checking for burns.
Behind me, women are hollering and guys are pointing at the Kodiaks.
The bartender taps me on the back, motioning urgently at me to get off the bar.
Clay’s hands find my hips, and he leans over my lap to talk to the bartender. “She’s fine where she is.”
The guy backs off.
“Nice hair,” Clay says when he straightens. His hand hasn’t moved from my hip.
“Thanks.” I twist a piece in my fingers. “Heard you’ve been playing ball.”
“He’s rough around the edges but it’ll come back,” Miles says.
Clay cuts him off with a warning look.
“What are you doing here?” I call.
“I felt like going out but should’ve stayed in. Some chick is texting me pics.”
I cross my legs, and my skirt rides up. “Damned Kodashians. She president of your fan club or something?”
Clay does a slow sweep of my body. “I’m president of hers.”
The buzz in my system is arousal—and him.
No one ever made me feel like I matter just for existing.
I reach for his arms to pull him closer, my fingers digging into the muscles as if I can leave my own marks under the swirls of ink. “I’m glad you’re here.” It’s half shout, half murmur near his ear.
Clay’s face angles toward mine. “How glad?”
It’s a dare, and a tease.
The music pulses through the counter, a mass of bodies writhing in the background, all of it saying to live for today. Not worry about tomorrow.
I lean forward and grab the back of his neck, pulling him toward me.
There’s no way of saying whether my lips find his first or his find mine. I don’t even care. I kiss him as if we’re the only people in the room.
The only people on the planet.
He’s hot and hard and so familiar that some part of me deep down throbs in recognition.
He tastes like an addiction I swore I’d kicked but now I can’t imagine going without.
“Shit,” I blurt as I tear my mouth away.
I slide off the counter and across the room, tripping down the hall to one of the bathrooms.
I tug the door after me and brace myself over the sink, starting at my reflection.
I’m sweaty and wide-eyed.
What am I doing?
We’re supposed to be on a break.
One we both agreed to.
Even if I confessed to Brooke that I’m not ready to turn the break into a breakup, things are way too messy.
I’m glad he’s talking to the guys again and Coach and that he picked up a basketball. But has anything really changed for us?
Except here with him, caught up in the music and his closeness, seeing him with the other guys, losing myself in his smile, I couldn’t resist.
I need to get hold of myself.
A banging on the door makes me jump. I open it an inch, and he’s filling the space.
Clay presses inside, slamming the door and locking it behind him.
“You followed me in here? What is it with you and bathrooms?” I demand as his body crowds mine.
He ignores me. “Tell me how drunk you are.”
“Not that drunk.” I peer up through half-lowered lashes.
We’re alone, the music pounding on the other side of the door. His attention flicks between my eyes and my mouth.
The backtracking I’m supposed to be doing evaporates from my mind.
“Nova, it’s been a minute.” His rasp is so low it sounds as if it’s torn from his body. “If you’re expecting me to shut you down, you’re going to be disappointed. I’m not my best self lately.”
“But you’re trying.” I reach up to push a piece of his hair from his face. It’s softer than I remember. “Momentum is everything.”
His brows pull together. “Who told you that?”
“You did.”
Clay swears under his breath. It’s soft, like a promise or a prayer.
That’s the only thing soft about him.
He grabs my thighs and lifts me, wrapping my legs around his hips and backing me into the door. It rattles on its hinges when he slams me against the wood.
He’s hard and demanding, as if it’s been years since we touched and he’s been counting each day.
His kisses light me up. I touch him everywhere I can reach, fumbling with the top buttons on his shirt so I can press my lips to his smooth, tattooed skin.
He shifts me onto the vanity, shoving my dress up, yanking my thong out of the way to sink two fingers inside me.
I grab onto his shoulders as my back arches to take him.
“Oh, God.”
It’s fast. He starts to pull back, but I grab his wrist to keep him where he is.
My head falls back against the mirror as he pumps into me, finding a rhythm.
He always chooses the rhythm.
“Look at me,” he commands.
His eyes darken on mine. Sweat traces a path down my neck as my hips rock to meet him stroke for stroke.
“I’d follow you anywhere.”
Clay sinks to his knees, yanking my hips to the edge of the sink and slipping his tongue between my thighs.
The music and the sweat and the tiny space and Clay’s huge body overwhelm me.
My fingers twist in his hair, tugging as if I have a hope of controlling him. This.
It doesn’t matter because he knows what he wants.
For the first time in months, he’s here with me, completely. His body, his mind, his soul.
The blood sings in my veins as his fingers join his mouth. I can’t hold back a moan, but it’s loud enough outside that no one’s going to hear.
My knuckles whiten on the sink behind me as I arch up into him. The pleasure from his licking, from his huge fingers curling inside me, builds until it drowns out everything else.
There’s nothing to hear, or see, or smell. There’s only this feeling concentrated deep in my core.
I’m a painter but he’s a goddamned artist.
The pleasure and need contract until they’re one throbbing point.
I’m shattering around him, against him.
He groans, his fingers digging into my skin as I ride out the feelings. I’m crashing, breaking on him like a wave on the shore.
It takes seconds or minutes for awareness to come back. Somehow he’s standing. My forehead rests on his chest, the hammering of his heart echoing mine.
How did my skirt get up around my chest?
I’m reaching for it when Clay speaks.
“There’s a deal on the table. No one knows. Not even my agent.” I look up to see him brush a thumb across his damp mouth. “It’s for one year. In Denver.”
The world stops.
“Mid-market. Team’s pretty good, but I left in some shitty circumstances.”
I bite my lip, adrenaline seeping back into my veins and blending with the alcohol and the arousal and the release. “Are you going to sign?”
Clay leans back against the opposite wall. His legs brush mine. “I don’t know if I can take them to a win.”
A match strikes deep in my chest, a tiny flickering flame sheltered between my ribs. The honesty of his statement warms me more than his presence, more than the drinks or the heat of the club.
“Then teach them how to win for themselves.”