5. Joey
5
Joey
I wake with a start when the bed dips, and my body rolls against a muscled leg. The rumble of thunder indicates dark clouds must have rolled in for a summer storm, making the room dim. I squint up at Brent, who is sitting on the bed, gazing at me with a solemn expression on his gorgeous face.
It isn’t a perfect face, not with the slight bump on his nose, broken in high school during a basketball game. But the grooves in his cheeks when he smiles, and those beautiful, soulful blue-gray eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes…they do it for me. What makes him completely irresistible is his caring nature and his commitment to taking care of his family, even when he was only a teenager.
It’s good to see him become more relaxed and playful these last few years. He’s more like the Brent I met when I was ten. It had been a blissful week at Lake George for all of us before everything changed. Tragic circumstances forced him to grow up overnight. Taking on the mantle of man of the house had made him far too serious for years after that.
He’s been busy the last few years, making up for all those difficult ones. I follow him on social media and in the tabloids, reading about his partying, the beautiful women always surrounding him, and his expensive purchases like the luxury cars and the penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.
Fueled by his frequent appearances on TV outside of football games, he’s become a celebrity. Due to numerous endorsements, he’s on billboards and in commercials, and he’s a hit as a frequent guest on talk shows. He was also part of a reality show during an off-season with a bunch of other players. His charm and sex appeal, combined with his football success, make him a hot commodity.
I’m a bit hot myself at the moment, especially when he puts one of his large palms on my leg, on the skin accessible through the slit of my skirt. He rubs it lightly from knee to upper thigh, dragging the skirt up so that his long fingers are almost at my hip. I grab his hand before it ventures any further, and he turns his palm so we end up holding hands.
“Feel better?” he asks, his voice a deep, sexy rumble.
“Mmm, yes. Much better.” I let go of his hand, using the need to stretch as an excuse. I raise my arms above my head and point my toes, letting my spine arch. “What time is it?” There’s no clock on the nightstand next to me. When I turn to him for a reply, he’s staring at my breasts, visible because the sheet slipped down. I’m not sure if it’s his warm touch and burning gaze or the cool air-conditioning that causes my nipples to jut against the fabric as they tingle and tighten.
I bring my arm down and across my chest to rub my other arm as if I’m cold, though I’m distinctly warm. Brent brings his attention back to my face, his expression one of a hungry lion. Suddenly nervous, I scramble away and jump out of bed, almost kicking him when I swing my legs to the floor. Startled, he too stands up. I’m boxed into the corner with the bed on one side, the wall on the other side, and Brent in front of me.
But it’s not fear I’m experiencing as he stands in front of me. Though he’s a half-foot taller and twice as wide as me, he’s a rare guy who makes me feel normal, feminine, instead of a freakish giant.
Self-consciousness due to my height is one reason I haven’t dated a lot in the past. Being with a man shorter than me would have made me appear more conspicuous, something I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid. The only guys I knew who were taller than me were the athletes I worked with. Some of them hit on me—sometimes flattering, sometimes annoying, always nerve-wracking. But I always shut it down, not wanting to jeopardize my work by muddying the waters. Or so I told the guys who asked me out. In reality I was afraid they were asking me just to get me in bed.
While I wanted to be in a physical relationship, I couldn’t make myself take up any of the offers that came my way. Subconsciously I’ve probably been comparing every guy I meet to Brent, and every one of them has fallen short, in more than just height.
A flicker of memory makes my eyes widen in horror. “Did you carry me last night?”
He grins at me. “I did indeed. Had to rush you to the porcelain god fast.”
I groan and hide my face in my hands. “Oh God! I don’t know what’s more embarrassing. I can’t believe you carried me! I’m huge and—”
Brent interrupts me by taking my hands away from my face. He holds my chin to force me to meet his gaze, his face as dark as the thunderclouds outside. “What the hell are you talking about? Baby, I can power clean at least twice what you weigh and bench press even more. Carrying you is nothing. And ‘huge’?”
He takes my hand and leads me to stand in front of the mirror over the dresser. “Look at you. You’re perfect, like a woman should be. Naturally curvy and feminine yet strong.”
Standing behind me, he splays his large hand across my abs, causing my muscles to constrict in reaction. I haven’t been this close to him in the fifteen years I’ve known him as I have in the last twelve hours. Too bad I’d been drunk or asleep for most of it.
“I wish more women were like you instead of the plastic dolls I meet all the time.”
Trying to ignore my racing heart and the tingles running through my body at his touch and nearness, I study our image in the mirror. The top of my head reaches his mouth. His chest and shoulders are so wide I can see them on both sides of my own broad shoulders.
But since most of the population isn’t as big as an offensive lineman, I would rather be one of those dolls he meets than what is reflecting back at me—an athletic body that’s too tall and too top-heavy, with facial features that I consider too big, from my dark brown eyes to the wide jaw, full lips, and a nose that’s more strong than delicate.
A cleft in my chin completes everything that I think is wrong with my face. Why couldn’t it have been a dimple in my cheek? At least my hair, dark brown with reddish undertones thanks to my Irish mother, became less curly once I let it grow long.
It became a habit to hide as much of myself as I could once I started developing at age ten. I hated it when I saw people’s eyes flicker toward my breasts. The polite ones tried to avoid looking down again, but too many boys had been disgustingly blatant.
I used loose and bulky clothing to cover up. No one stared at a dumpy girl. I went from being called things like giraffe in elementary school for being too tall and skinny, to not so inoffensive names in middle school when I’d gained weight after my father’s abandonment.
“Now, what’s the second thing?” Brent brings me back to our conversation. When I stare at him blankly, he prompts, “You said you were embarrassed about something else.”
“I’m pretty sure you saw me throwing up last night.” I want to hide my face again but can’t. His hands are still on my belly, trapping my arms at my sides. I close my eyes and hang my head, letting my hair partially obstruct my face. That doesn’t prevent me from hearing his chuckle.
“Yeah, I’d probably be embarrassed about that too. Sorry, can’t help you there.” I open my eyes and glare at him, then throw my elbow into his ribs before I realize I’m going to. I’m shocked at myself for doing that. It’s something his sisters might do when he teased them. I was always more reserved, and never comfortable enough to be this close to him before—except the night of our kiss.
He laughs and turns me around, his warm hands on my bare shoulders causing my stomach to do flips. “I’m just messing with you. It happens. Nothing to be embarrassed about, baby.”
Another hazy memory sharpens into focus at his use of the endearment, but my mortification has me pushing away from him and escaping into the bathroom. I rush through my shower, knowing he’s nearby. Being naked in the same spot he was this morning, using the same soap and shampoo, while he’s a few yards away, seems too intimate.
I dress in the sleeveless top and skirt I had on last night. Where did I leave my jacket? I don’t remember taking it off. I feel naked without it. Needing the security of holding something in front of my chest, I grab a second towel and put it around my neck, under my wet hair.
When I exit the bathroom, Brent is standing at the window, sipping from a mug. The round table next to him holds a carafe of coffee, a jug of orange juice, and a plate of toast. He turns as I pad in bare feet toward him. When our eyes meet, a shiver runs over my body, and my nipples start their familiar tingling when in his presence.