Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (28 page)

“You really shouldn’t,” I protest.

“But I am,” she responds. “Keep me updated through text.”

* * *

T
raffic finally relents
enough for me to make it near my home. Smoke clouds the air and I let out a cough. Emergency crews still have the area blocked off, even though the fire is now completely out. I park nearly three blocks away and push past news crews and bystanders to get a closer look. There are four homes connected together in a row, and two rows of four on the block. All eight structures look damaged.

Damn. I can see clearly through the roofs of several of the townhomes.

“Ayron.” My name floats through the air, and I am confused.

Am I imagining things? Did someone call my name? Did he call my name? There is a lot of noise. People are milling about talking, panicked people are pacing around the barricades.

“Ayron.” I hear it again and look up to see Devlin moving toward me with purpose.

His masculine body is housed in yoga pants and a T-shirt, but he looks sexy. I see he has a goatee now that is neatly trimmed, and his face looks delectable. Damn, I miss that man, his rough faced kisses, and strong, roaming hands.

I have to close my eyes because he looks so good. Seeing him hurts.

I don’t move when he reaches me, and I don’t back away when he wraps his arms around me. I fall into them and fall apart.

Tears rise up from a place somewhere in my soul. Those same tears leak through my eyes for my loss of love, Ms. Agnes rotting away in hospice, and all the memories of my granny possibly crisped due to a fire. It is all too heavy to hold alone and I lean into his open arms.

“I’m taking you home,” he says, leading me to his car.

* * *

I
nside the sweet
-smelling car of Devlin Masters, I rest on the buttery leather seats and keep my eyes closed. After our greeting on the street, I find that I can’t look at him; the image of his wounded face in New York keeps resurfacing. As we race out of the city, I feel his gaze on me, and it makes me feel even worse. Why does he care? Why is he being so nice to me, coming to my rescue when I had lied to him? I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I’ve been a good girl all of my life. The smart, astute, responsible person determined to make my grandmother proud. She wouldn’t be proud of what I did to Devlin.

I sigh and the tears just keep falling. No whimpers, no sound, just hot, fat tears pooling on my shirt.

My legs feel heavy as I swing them away from the car. Devlin had opened my door.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffle while biting my lip and watching the ground.

He lifts me to my feet with solid hands and pulls me closer to his welcoming body.

Locked in his arms, I inhale the spicy-sweet smell of him.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m a horrible person. You can just drop me off—” I start.

“Look at me,” Devlin demands, his voice softer and kinder than I deserve.

When I look up at him, his congenial caramel eyes sparkle.

Sadness and longing fill me. He had been mine, in my grasp, and I had fucked it all up.

“I’m just glad that you are all right,” he says. “Come hang out with me until we understand what’s going on with your place.”

His use of the word “we” makes me tremble, but I move along with him.

* * *

E
ntering his home
, I see his beautiful fish tank and stop. There are plenty of fish there, but the Angelfish stick out; they are the prettiest, the most unique. Devlin moves through the home without worry and rattles on about dinner, but I am stuck. The memory of his serene face when he called me his Angelfish flashes before me and the tears begin again.

Devlin reappears. I guess he finally realized that I wasn’t behind him.

“I’m going to fix some dinner,” he says, like everything is normal and he hasn’t just picked me up from a burning building.

“Um,” I utter, my eyes glued to the fish tank that suddenly looks a little emptier. “I just need to—” I bite my lip and I twist my hands and fingers between each other.

I can’t get the words out. I need to tell him that I can take care of myself, that I don’t need his friendship or pity. I don’t deserve it.

I look over at the fish tank again and realize why it looks emptier.

“What happened to Sarabi?” I ask, running my right thumb-nail underneath each nail on my left hand. “Where’s Mufasa?”

He steps closer to me with narrowed eyes. Surprise flickers and dies there.

“I found Sarabi at the top of the tank. Mufasa hasn’t moved from the cave since,” he explains to me.

The tears blur my eyes, and I can’t seem to feel my legs.

“Everybody is dying.” I heave in and out attempting to catch my breath. Everything around me feels like it is falling, giant boulders thumping against my chest.

Before I can fall, he surrounds me, supporting me in his strong arms. I can’t resist falling against him. He must think I’m crazy. How ironic, a crazy psychologist.

I have to pull myself together, even though I feel like I am unraveling like a ball of yarn.

I take deep breaths against the hardness of his chest before standing back on my own two legs.

His eyes are intense and full of worry. I hate that look. That “walk on egg shells as to not startle the crazy person” look that is stamped on his face.

I sigh before steadying myself as best I can.

“I grew up with my granny after my parents died. She worked hard as a housekeeper to make sure that I made something of myself. A doctor.”

I catch his eyes again and he seems patient.

I move my fingernail through my other fingers again, nervous.

He places a calming hand on top of mine.

“You don’t have to do this now,” he says, placing a kiss on my cheek.

That hurts. We had been so intimate. His lips had been on my pussy, and now I get the “church lady” grandma kiss on the cheek?

“I do,” I tell him, my frustration giving me some strength. “While I was working on my degrees, I helped her clean homes, and started working as a professional organizer. I trained under Dr. Tirash to finish my doctorate and certification. I started my own practice in a community center a few years ago, merging both of the things that I enjoy. It took everything that I had, including all of the money my grandmother left me when she passed, to keep it open.”

At the mention of my grandmother, I feel weepy again.

“Talk to me,” he says, forcing me to look at him. “I want to know about you.”

This gives me hope. He releases my face but continues staring.

“I didn’t charge much, nothing more than the people could afford. Last month, the city decided to close the center. To move anywhere else would cost three times more, and then—” I swallow hard trying to push back the tears. They seep out anyway and fall against his shirt this time.

He caresses away a tear and pulls me impossibly closer to him with a comforting arm around my waist. Devlin kisses my mouth this time.

“I can’t stand to see you cry,” he whispers against my cheek. “You have to talk to me so that I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix it,” I sniffle. “Ms. Agnes loved me when no one did. She took care of me when my grandmother passed. She’s been my assistant--and my rock.” I fight the urge to pull at my thumbs. “She got sick, and I needed money for her surgery. I had to save her,” I explain. “I want to save her, and then Dr. Tirash told me about you and your dad.”

He sighs when I look up, and there is that familiar flash of anger.

“I didn’t mean to fall in lo—” I stop. I can’t go around confessing love for a man I lied to. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know that I would like you so much.”

“I understand,” he says flatly and I can’t read his expression.

“Ms. Agnes is in hospice now. The doctors are just waiting on her to die. Sarabi died. My house burned. My best friend is on another continent.” I leave out that I lost my boyfriend, but the thought makes it all heavier. “Everything is a mess. I’m a mess.”

Burning tears ram through my eyes this time despite my efforts. I am just so tired.

I try to keep standing, try to keep being strong, but I don’t have anything left. I can’t see through the tears, or feel through the hurt.

Seconds later, I am being lifted. Devlin is carrying me. I press against his chest and let out the ugliest, deepest cry of agony.

He places me on the bed and surrounds my body with his, holding me close.

“I’m here,” he whispers quietly and calmly against my ear. “It’s all right.”

C
hapter 18-Devlin

When I couldn’t find Ayron yesterday, I was frantic. Nothing else mattered but her safety and wellbeing. Regardless of how she became a part of my life, she is now a part of my life. I wanted to shoot her friend Monique through the phone. She told me that she knew how to contact Ayron but wouldn’t give me the number. Monique wanted to find out if it was all right with Ayron first. It still makes my blood boil. I needed to know if Ayron was still alive and Monique told me that she would call me back.

I shake my head at the memory, and slide my hand over Ayron’s sleeping body. Her hair is tousled across the white pillowcase, her mouth gaping open, with faint drool lines on either side. She is definitely not a light sleeper, but is beautiful still. The sight of her draped in my t-shirt is better than any lingerie. Almost losing her yesterday shifted something inside me. Fuck the petty shit: she had been there for me at every turn when it counted.

Her eyes flutter open and she makes a sort of snorting, snore noise and pops up in the bed.

“Good morning,” I greet, placing a calm hand against her back.

She turns to me with a worried expression and lies back down.

“Hey,” she says quietly before looking up at me with those eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes that meet mine and seem to peer into my soul. “You didn’t have to work today?”

She blinked slowly. “I thought everything would have gone well.”

“I’ll hear from them today sometime.” I rake my hand through Ayron’s hair, more concerned about her than my position. “In the meantime, I want to make sure that you are all right.”

Long, delicate fingers cover her mouth with a groan.

“I am so sorry about yesterday.” Ayron tilts her head to meet my eyes. “And for not being totally honest with you about what I do.”

I nod. It still stings that she lied to me.

I snuggle closer and enjoy feeling the press of her breasts against my side. She fits right into the nook of my arm. Perfect. Frustration melted.

I kiss her head.

“I talked to my father.” The words come out lightly, even though the implications are heavy.

Ayron looks up at me before sliding her lip between her teeth. She doesn’t say anything, only looks distressed.

“I’ll leave,” she says, a slight whimper creeping into her voice.

Ayron moves forward in an attempt to leave my side, but I keep my arm safeguarded around her.

The last thing that I ever want is for her to disappear on me again.

“You don’t have to—” she begins, but I interrupt.