Scrimmage Gone South (Crimson Romance) (11 page)

“I’ll walk you out.”

“No.” She pushed her chair up. “You will not.” And she walked away, her head high, moving on her stilettos with such grace that they might have been part of her. He watched her go and he didn’t like the reasons why.

Damn it all to hell, this had to stop. Nathan signaled for the waiter, signed the bill, and stalked out to the parking lot. Audrey’s car was already gone and it was just as well. She was a decent woman who had been nothing but kind to him. Why couldn’t kindness be enough? Of course, there had been a long string of women who’d been kind, fair, honest, and loving and it had never been enough.

He slid behind the steering wheel and put his head down. It was time he faced it. Townshend went with him everywhere, just sat on his ruined halo, ruining his life.

Well, it was going to stop. He’d told himself when he first came to town that if he wanted friends, he was going to have to be around her. But he was done. No more Easter brunches, pool parties, and football watching at Harris and Missy’s. No more Fourth of July fireworks and homemade ice cream at the Avery family farm. No more sissy wine and cheese parties at Lucy Mead’s house. He would continue to play golf and eat breakfast with Harris, Luke, and Brantley Kincaid, when he was in town. He’d see Luke and Harris at Rotary, but he was done with those women because being around Missy, Lucy, and Lanie meant Townshend and he was done, done, done.

There were only two more ballgames, so his dealings with her over Seven were all but done. He might have to see her from a distance but that was all. To be sure, she’d be at the athletic banquet in the spring, but by then he’d have a date. And she was going to be dark headed and six feet tall. He’d see to that. No more midget blondes in pearls and cashmere. What the hell was cashmere, anyway?

A muffled “
I Go Back
” by Kenny Chesney began to play — except he didn’t have the radio on. What? Oh, damn. It was coming from Seven’s backpack on the floorboard. Rayford Stumps had given him the backpack and Seven’s phone at the hospital.

Damn, damn, damn! He couldn’t wait until Monday; the boy’s playbook, game DVD, and homework would be in the backpack. Well, this was the last time. He’d take it over there, but he would hand it off at the door. Maybe Seven would answer the door and he wouldn’t have to see or hear her. But either way, his dealings with her were over as of tonight.

The lights were on in the carriage house and he rang the bell. After a couple of minutes, the door flew open.

Townshend wore a pair of white socks and a white robe — the kind you find in fancy hotels. It was tied at the waist but she clutched the top with both hands, as if she was afraid it would fall off. If fact, come to think of it, she looked afraid — petrified, panicked.

Then he got it. She was naked under that robe. And she wasn’t alone.

“Sorry for the interruption,” he said.

“No interruption,” she said and pulled the robe tighter and higher at her throat. “I just got out of the shower. I was going to bed to read.”

“Yeah?” She might be telling the truth. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face looked shiny. No makeup. She looked young — as young as she’d looked the first time he saw her.

“How’s Seven?”

She wrinkled her brow. “Okay, I guess. He has a headache so I gave him some of that medicine and he’s asleep. I’ve been waking him up every two hours.”

“Why?”

“I read on the Internet that you should do that with someone who has a head injury.”

“Did the doctor tell you to do that? Did he
say
he had head injury?”

“No. But he has a cut on his forehead. That’s enough for me. I don’t trust doctors.”

He almost asked her who she trusted, but remembered he wasn’t there to have a conversation. He held out the black backpack. “Rayford gave me this. Seven’s phone is inside.” She nodded but made no move to take it. She just stood there clutching that robe. She had to be naked underneath, even if she didn’t have company. He didn’t want to think about that. “Well? Are you going to take it?”

“Oh.” Her cheeks stained apricot. He’d forgotten how pretty she was when she blushed. He had to get out of here.

She continued to clutch her robe with her right hand and tentatively reached for the backpack with her left.

“It’s heavy,” he warned her too late.

Unprepared for the weight of her burden, it fell against her leg, threw her off balance, and the top of her robe flew apart.

She wasn’t naked.

“Crap almighty!” She let the backpack drop to the floor and clutched her robe together again but not before Nathan saw what was underneath.

Faded crimson, with a tear at the neck, from a holding penalty that was never called. White numbers, cracked with age.
Nathan’s stomach tuned over. He looked from her clutching white knuckles to her eyes and saw the humiliation there. She knew he’d seen. She took a step back. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Maybe he was wrong. He had to be. She would not have kept his jersey all these years. There was no reason.

Her apricot blush was gone and her face had faded to vampire white. She shook her head from side to side. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

Cleary, she was telling him that he hadn’t seen what he thought he had. But she was a liar and he had to know. He untied the robe and pushed it off her shoulders.

85.
The jersey reached her knees, like he’d known it would when he gave it to her. He’d pictured her in the stands, wearing it with jeans and a turtleneck the way his teammates’ girlfriends did. She was the only girl he’d ever given a jersey to.

Was it remotely possible that he was wrong? Townshend’s head was bowed now and she had tightly crossed her arms over her chest like a child who’d been caught at something. And that was possible. Maybe he’d caught her in another guy’s jersey. Alabama didn’t retire numbers and he hadn’t been the last guy to wear eighty-five. After all, she’d proven herself to be a football groupie.

Slowly, he circled behind her. She bowed her head lower and said again, “No. No, Nathan.”

But the truth was written across her back.
SCOTT.

He ran his hands over the letters that formed his name. Beneath the cracked plastic and soft cotton, Townsend trembled. Nathan placed his hands on her shoulders to turn her toward him. He only meant to ask her
why,
but she had started to cry.

Then she was in his arms, her mouth on his. He lifted her and her legs went around his waist. For the first time in over a decade his mouth felt complete. The fire between them was so quick, so sweet, so hot, that it had to have two points of origin.

When he shifted to take her mouth more fully into his, she mistook his intent and thought he was trying to pull away. Her arms tightened around him and she ran her fingers up the back of his neck. He reveled in that and pulled her tighter against his throbbing erection.

Sweet Jesus. She slid against him; she wasn’t wearing any panties.

He cupped her check and lifted her face from his.

“Townshend. Tell me to let you go or tell me where to lay you down.”

Her eyes were dry now. “Down the hall,” she whispered. “Second door on the right.”

• • •

He felt familiar and new all at the same time — like going home to a house that had been redecorated. In his touch, she recognized the remnants of the boy left in the man. He set her on the side of the bed and reached for the jersey.

“Careful,” she said. “It’s threadbare. Don’t tear it.” He narrowed his eyes, but nodded. He carefully pulled it over her head, folded it, and laid it on her dressing table.

She sat naked and he still wore his date clothes — khakis, blue button-down, navy blazer. Where was his date anyway? It was early. Maybe she was sitting in his truck waiting for him. She giggled at the thought.

He bent over her and brought his mouth to hers. He tasted like bourbon and vanilla. “If I had my clothes off, I might take exception to being laughed at,” he said.

“I wouldn’t laugh.” She pushed his blazer off his shoulders and seconds later, they were under the covers together, naked and silent.

This was a whole symphony of feeling — touching, tasting, hot breath on hot skin. It was good — better than she could have imagined and she had imagined a lot. He was slow and deliberate, but playing a game he was intent on winning — all without saying a word. She counted the time as he counted the score, not in minutes but in her orgasms. Though he had yet to enter her, she came over and over again at the mercy of his hands, mouth, and penis.

“Stop,” she said breathlessly as he knelt between her legs again. “I can’t stand any more right now.” If he was trying to conquer her, he was succeeding. But there was something she longed for too. She wanted to see, touch, and taste every inch on him. It had been close to six years between the day he had told her to never contact him again and the time she finally gave her body to a man. At the time, she had thought another man’s touch would make her forget, but it had only made her aware of the possibilities. Every day since that night, she had longed to know what Nathan looked and felt like. No matter how many men she slept with or how much alcohol she consumed — and for a time there had been quite a lot of both — she couldn’t stop wondering. This might be her only chance.

She wordlessly rolled him to his back and began her navigation. His body was as beautiful as his face — hard stomach, narrow waist, and arms and legs like granite. She kissed, licked, and stroked, but his only reactions were those that were involuntary — trembling, hard set jaw, and ragged breath. It was clear he would cheerfully march into hell before giving away one infinitesimal piece of himself. But wasn’t that the job of a warrior angel?

She slid down his body and ran a hand under his hard calf while stroking his inner thigh. It was her plan to settle in and make him remember her but she caught sight of his knee.

It was a road map of jagged scars from surgeries — some ancient and faded white, some pink and newer looking. Why she was surprised, she did not know. She ran her hand over the knee and began to kiss the scars.

“My fault,” she muttered. “All my fault.”

He sat bolt upright and grabbed her shoulders. “No!”

For the barest second, she thought he was going to grant her absolution. Whether she could have accepted that kind mercy, she would never know.

But he didn’t. “No. Don’t talk about it. Don’t talk about anything.”

And he gently pulled her to straddle him and kissed her for a long time, as if he was erasing any words spoken by either of them. She wanted so badly to stroke his face, but was afraid he wouldn’t accept the tenderness.

He leaned against the headboard and reached for the foil packet he’d tossed there earlier. Even as he guided her into the dominant position and eased her onto him, he remained in charge, orchestrating every move from the rhythm of her strokes to his own release. She half expected him to push her aside, dress, and leave without speaking, so it was a gift when he pulled the covers over them and cradled her head on his chest.

But it was a gift she had to give back, she hoped temporarily.

“I need to go check on Kirby.” She rose and pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

“You’re coddling that boy,” Nathan said with a trace of pout in his voice.

“First, you accuse me of not taking good enough care of him. Now I’m coddling him. I don’t know where the middle is, Nathan.” She jammed her feet into her slippers. “I’ll be right back.”

“Townshend?” he called as she approached the door.

“Yes?” She turned back to him.

“Why did you keep my jersey?” His face was closed, devoid of emotion. What was the right answer?

“I don’t know.” And she hurried into the hall and up the stairs.

• • •

Nathan sat on the side of the bed and flexed his knee before reaching for his clothes.

She didn’t know.
Well that was no surprise. She probably had dozens of trophy jerseys — football, hockey, soccer. She wasn’t the baseball type. If he’d been a different kind of person, he’d have looked in her closet. Or her dresser drawer. Or both. She probably kept the jerseys in the closet and the hearts in her drawer.

Well, his wasn’t there anymore. This had been a long time coming but it was over now. It wasn’t like him to leave a woman’s bed without so much as a goodbye. Of course, lately it wasn’t like him to leave a woman’s bed period because he hadn’t gone there to begin with. But that could change now. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and pulled on his shoes.

Still, the thought of leaving without a word niggled at him. Maybe he should check on Seven. It wasn’t as if the boy would know he and Townshend had been in bed together. It was only a little after nine. That was an entirely reasonable time to drop by on a Saturday night.

Yes. He’d check on the boy and tell Townshend goodnight. That would be the decent thing to do. Hell, who knew. Maybe he’d take her back to bed, just to make sure he was good and done. It would be no sacrifice; it had been good. Phenomenal, even.

He picked his way up the stairs, though he’d never been up there before.

“Honey? Wake up.” He recognized the soft sweet tone of her voice though it had been thirteen years since it had been directed to him.

“No! Leave me alone!” The last words were muffled as if the boy had pulled the covers over his head.

“You can go right back. Tell me your name.”

“Seven.”

“No. Your real name.”

“Kirby Alexander Lawson.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Thirsty.”

“What do you want?”

“Some of that orange juice and ginger ale stuff.” Of course. Witch’s brew for the sick.

“Right here.” He heard the rattle of ice cubes. Did she have a whole bar set up in his room? Why not? Spoil the boy. Be sweet to him. Make him love you. That was her style.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now sleep.”

“Miss Tolly?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“Can I tell you something private?”