I waste no time getting on my bike and snapping up the kickstand. Holding on to the handles, the wind whipping open my jacket, I nod toward the seat. “Hop, on, Snowflake. It’s getting fucking cold.”
Hesitant at first, she steps tentatively toward the bike, almost looking like a bobblehead with my helmet on. “I don’t know . . .”
Turning on the bike, balancing it upright with a wide stance, I lift her visor so our eyes meet. “Tell me something. Aren’t you the one who wants to change, who wants to experience new things?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing. This is an experience. Eat it up and enjoy it.” I gesture to the seat behind me once again. “Now, hop on. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Biting her bottom lip, she carefully straddles the seat and quickly wraps her arms around my midsection. Her legs grip my hips and it feels like I have a spider monkey attached to my back. Fuck, if it isn’t the most amazing feeling.
Shouting through the helmet, she says, “For the record, I’ve always thought my peanut butter cookies were better than my grams’s. Let that be known to the world.”
I rev the engine and move out onto the road.
“Noted.”
JACE
“One more shot.” Hollyn sways, carrying a Tupperware container with Jack Daniels grazing the bottom. I don’t have shot glasses so we resorted to little Tupperware containers. Classy, I know.
“One more shot was three shots ago,” I answer, my head feeling fuzzy.
“Yes, but to end on five shots seems criminal. You can’t end shots on an odd number, then you will have bad luck.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is a thing.” She smiles down at me, wiggling the container in temptation.
When Hollyn called, her voice was bitter, exhausted, like she was at the end of her rope. Kind of like I was feeling, so inviting her over was an easy decision because misery loves company. That, and I wanted to see her. No, more like I needed to see her. She would understand, she would listen, she would tell Life to go fuck itself like I want to.
“It’s not a thing,” I counter back, not taking the shot. One more is a bad idea, a really bad idea.
“Fine, you’re going to have bad luck.” She places the shot on the coffee table and flops down on the couch next to me.
“Bad luck? Come on, Hollyn, pretty sure it can’t get any worse than it already is for me. I’ve reached the pinnacle of bad luck.”
“Not true.” She shakes her head. “You could break your face and never play baseball again.”
“Break my face? That’s the term you decided to use? Break my face, not my leg or my arm, but my face.”
“Face is more dramatic. You can’t recover from a face break.”
“Face breaks are easy to recover from,” I say, turning toward her, draping my arm over the couch.
“Oh yeah?” She turns as well and tucks her legs under her ass, curling up. God, she looks so fucking good right now, cuddled up on my couch, her hair flowing over her shoulders. “Ever break your face before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Huh, weird.”
“Why is that weird?” I ask.
Scanning me up and down, with a smile she says, “It sure does look like you broke your face at least once.”
Burn.
She’s laughing when I respond, “You must think you’re so funny.”
“I know I am.”
“You’re really not,” I counter.
“You’re only saying that because I bruised your ego.” Leaning forward, providing me a whiff of her feminine perfume, she pats my chest, her hand lingering for a second or two. “Don’t worry, your face is pretty.”
“Pretty? I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty before. Handsome, hot, sexy, but never pretty.”
She rolls her eyes and rests the side of her head on my arm that’s draped along the couch. “And that’s why I have to tell you it looks like your face is broken, so you don’t get too full of yourself.”
“Believe me, I’m not full of myself. I don’t need your insults to keep me grounded. I have enough guilt to keep me floored.”
She pauses before responding. “Are you going to finally talk? Or are we going to keep dancing around the elephant in the room?”
“I don’t know, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
A sad smile crosses her beautiful lips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Are we talking stories or boobs? Because I have no problem taking my shirt off right now.”
A breath falls between us before she moves her foot and pushes my leg with her toe. “Are you . . . flirting with me?”
We’re crossing over into unknown territory. Friends don’t flirt; friends also don’t lust after each other. I want to tread lightly, but the five shots are kicking in and my mouth starts talking before I can stop it.
“Do you want me to flirt with you?” I answer with a question, because confirming my actions seems too forward at the moment. “Let me guess, you don’t like broken faces flirting with the likes of you.”
She chuckles, and the almost-terrified look on her face vanishes, the smile I crave more than anything replacing it. “Broken faces need love too on occasion.”
“Yeah?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her only to gather a palm to the face.
“Get out of here with that.” Her head still resting on my arm, she continues, “Are you going to tell me what’s got your liver quivering? Or are you going to keep cowering in the corner about it?”
“Bedside manner, might want to work on it.” She shrugs and waits for me to answer. Yeah, I knew this was coming at some point; she wasn’t going to let me drink and not say anything. That sixth shot is looking good right about now.
Where do I even start? How does someone talk about their baby mama drama that goes way past who’s going to pay child support? This is the kind of drama that can ruin a person, and not just me. This is the kind of news that will destroy June and Alex.
Fuck, just thinking about the look on their faces is obliterating me from the inside out.
“Jace, just get it out.”
I nod, trying to find the right words. I run my spare hand over my face and blow out a long breath as I tilt my head back to look at the ceiling. Staring at something inanimate will be a hell of a lot better than seeing Hollyn’s reaction. “Rebecca came by my place today.”
“Who’s Rebecca?”
“Hope’s birth mom.”
“Oh God.” Hollyn sits up and scoots closer. With her hand, she forces me to look at her, concern lacing her eyes. “What did she want?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do. Was it money? I hope you didn’t give her any.”
“Ha.” A sardonic laugh escapes me. If only. “I wish it was money she wanted.”
“Oh no . . .” her voice trails off.
“Yeah, she wants Hope back.”
“What? Are you kidding me? Can she do that?”
“I have no clue. I talked to Matt today about setting up a meeting with the team’s lawyer and mine to go over all the legal bullshit involved in adoption.”
“How can she even justify wanting Hope back? Didn’t she sign her rights away?”