Chapter 4
Dunk
Dunk’s job as a gym teacher and football coach at MHS left him with plenty of time to involve himself in local events and charity things. He couldn’t donate the way the Riveaus did, since he didn’t have that much disposable income. But he volunteered at plenty of things to help give back and support the community, from chaperoning school dances to emceeing Maybelle County Hospital charity events.
So when Aden told him that his next chance to discover—or rediscover —his sex Cinderella was at the vet hospital’s annual Free Adoption Day, he was genuinely excited. The thought that there could be dozens of women who fit his vague memories of the mystery woman only dampened that excitement a little bit. There was nothing to lose by signing up to volunteer though; even if he didn’t figure out who his Cinderella was today, he would have a great time helping animals and people find each other.
This time, he didn’t dress up, knowing he’d wind up covered in dog and cat hair, not to mention rabbit crap and hamster pee.
The vet hospital wasn’t very big, but it had almost an acre fenced in where most of the dogs and the volunteers were. Dunk checked in with the vet and was assigned to the kittens for the first few hours, then he’d get to move outside and help with the big dogs after lunch.
For a second, as the vet went over some reminders about how the adoptions went with the volunteers, he wondered if it had been her that night. But when she smiled, it was small and tight, and he had this gut feeling that whoever he’d been with had smiled like he did, real big.
Soon the event had started and he was sitting on one of the plastic folding tables, legs dangling. Two white kittens were batting at his shoelaces while he bounced his feet, one fat gray furball was kneading his thigh like it was a pillow, and one teeny tiny calico cat was sprawled on its back across his forearm. It wriggled and purred, legs kicking more like a kangaroo, its front paws raking and catching on his tee shirt.
Families came in and out, the kids racing all over, sticking their hands through cage wires. They shrieked when the cats batted their fingers, giggling when they got their faces licked by little pink tongues. Dunk grinned, talking with the parents, more about football than the animals, but he loved talking about football, so he didn’t care.
It had been a while since he’d been social in such a low-key way, and for some reason, it made him notice the way women looked at him and talked to him more than usual.
They were always friendly and flirty with him, and they touched him casually much more than they seemed to with other men. It never mattered if they were twenty or forty, married or single or whatever else, or if they were shy or brassy or cool. Women had always seemed to have some magical sixth sense that let them know that he was safe, that he didn’t have an agenda, that he would never make fun of them or brush them off. They knew that he’d always smile, always laugh, always flirt.
And if they wanted more—the single ones only, of course—then he’d give it to them, no strings, no regrets. He knew they liked his muscles and all of that, but he had always gotten the sense that they would’ve treated him the same way even if he were shorter or beefy or had crooked teeth. They knew he loved everything about them, and sometimes they just wanted to be appreciated, to be sampled. They didn’t want to be taken or taken apart, didn’t want lovemaking or fucking. When they wanted to be a little silly, a little selfish, a little adventurous, they invited him to play.
He loved kissing—he’d do it for hours, honestly, if someone wanted him to—and he had a reputation for what his mouth and fingers could do. He genuinely didn’t get what other men were—and weren’t—doing, but it wasn’t magic. He’d been a pretty good athlete because he learned early on how to read body language, to sense tension, and to anticipate movement.
And he wanted to make people happy.
Really, he wanted to be happy right along with them.
So when they teased and cooed and smoothed their hands up his arms, when they dragged their nails lightly down his abs to take one of the kittens from him, he only beamed. He stayed close, not minding at all when they inhaled the way he smelled. He just asked them how their kids were, or their job, or nudged them into adopting one of the cats.
“How do you do that, man?” Shane Rhys asked while they washed their hands, getting ready to eat pizza that had been brought in for the volunteers.
“Do what?” he asked as they went over to the food.
Shane flicked a hand at the four roommates who’d come to adopt a cat together. They were giggling and checking him out in between squeals of excitement as they went through the adoption process for their new cat.
Dunk grinned. “It’s a gift,” he said, because it was the answer everyone expected, one everyone was comfortable with. He wasn’t smarmy or condescending about it, he just played up his man-ditz jock persona.
“How do your friends put up with you?” Shane laughed.
“You gotta know I’m going to make a coaching joke here,” Dunk replied. “Practice, practice, practice,” he went on cheerfully.
“Hey, Coach,” the vet said, sidling up to the two of them. Her eyes flickered over Shane, covertly but not that covertly, not that Shane noticed. “Can I move you over to the puppies after you eat?”
Dunk swallowed his bite of crust. “No problem,” he assured her.
She offered him a tiny smile and then oh-so-casually turned to Shane. “Are you doing alright?” She dug her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. “B-because I always like to check in with first-time volunteers.”
Hiding a pleased grin, Dunk clapped Shane on the shoulder, grabbed his plate of veggie deluxe pizza and chips, and declared heartily, “I better go keep an eye on all those puppies. Later, y’all!”
They didn’t even acknowledge him, which only made him smirk.
The puppies were adorable, soft, and the easiest group of animals to help get adopted, Dunk knew. They were all in the fenced-in yard, and Dunk leaned against the five-foot fence as he scarfed down the rest of his lunch. There were two of the hospital’s staff in there, wearing frankly hideous neon green tee shirts, and a bunch of visitors. The puppies were beside themselves, rolling and jumping and nipping. One of the staff was weaving in and out, expertly cleaning up after their messes.
After he threw out his paper plate, he let himself into the yard.
It took a few minutes before the easily distracted puppies noticed someone new in there, but when they saw him, they barreled over and into his shins and shoes, barking wildly. He dropped into a crouch and laughed, just as enthusiastic about petting them as they were about sniffing him.
“Hey, y’all,” he said in a low, soothing rumble. “I’m naming you Scooter,” he told the runt of the little pack around him. “And you’re Pampers, cause you have a big butt and you walk like a toddler in diapers.”
Someone giggled, but when he looked up, the sun was right in his eyes and all he could make out was a pair of slim calves and heels getting slapped by pink flip flops.
One of the puppies made a break for his face.
It was wet and scrappy, and Dunk laughed again as he grappled with the little brown and white body, trying to get it back on the ground. He finally stood up, then set the puppy down. “Damn,” he muttered, looking at the state of his shirt. It was soaked through in patches, streaks of mud around his ribs and up at the neckline. He pulled it away from his skin a little, but luckily it wasn’t that cold out, for January in western Virginia.
“Tugger, easy,” one of the staff called out, striding over and swooping low to grab Tugger’s red collar. The puppy whined and scrabbled his legs, trying to get back over to Dunk. “Hi, Coach,” she said, surveying him, her eyes lingering on the wet shirt. “This is Tugger. He’s a Boxer, maybe six months old. He’s friendly, but I’ve never seen him like this. You like him?”
Dunk wiped his hands carelessly down his sweats as he cocked his head to the side. He grinned when Tugger did the exact same thing, dark liquid brown eyes gleaming over his wrinkly white snout.
“Sure I do,” he told the staffer simply. “But my mama has a dog and I’m not sure either of them would want to share their territory.”
“Fudgesicle is a sweetheart,” the staffer disagreed, “he wouldn’t mind!”
Dunk imagined taking his runs with Tugger, the puppy roaming off the sidewalk and into the woods up at the forest preserve. He imagined being sacked out in his recliner with him sprawled out on his lap.
Easy as that, Dunk was in love with Tugger.
“I’d better call my mama,” he said, winking at the staffer as he fished his cell out of the deep pocket of his sweats. “Excuse me a minute, sweetheart.”
• • •
Daisy
“I’m going to faint right here,” Stephanie whispered breathlessly to Daisy as she wrestled with a Boxer puppy to get a leash attached to its collar.
“What? Why?” Daisy asked.
“Look,” Stephanie practically begged.
“Good Lord,” Daisy exclaimed once she’d turned around.
A chorus of Amens came from a knot of women nearby.
Daisy dragged her gaze down Dunk McCoy, slouched back against the metal wire fence like a cowboy waiting for his turn at rodeo.
His white tee shirt was wet for some reason, streaked with mud. It was tight, but not stretched out, over all of those ridiculous, drool-worthy muscles. The wet patches clung, his skin almost glowing inside the fabric, and the muddy streaks just reminded her that he’d been an athlete. An athlete who got muddy and wet and covered in mud while he used that powerful, well-designed body to catch passes and dodge tackles. His wet biceps lit up in the sharp afternoon sun as he switched his cell from one ear to the other.
“Where’s iced tea when you need it?” one of the women whined.
“I got to tell you, that is not false advertising, ladies,” another purred.
“Ain’t that the truth?” another sighed.
“Y’all need to pick your tongues up off the grass, now,” someone admonished. “He’s going to notice y’all ogling him. Shamelessly.”
“I don’t see you looking away,” the first noted cattily.
Dunk ended his call and looked up, straight at all of them.
Not a single one looked away in embarrassment at being caught. Every single one of them just smiled over at Dunk McCoy as he moved towards the puppy who was straining at his leash in Stephanie’s hands.
His eyes passed over Daisy, just the same way it was passing over all of the other women, his grin crooked and easy.
There was a sharp sense of disappointment in Daisy’s guts.
“Shane’s waiting for me,” Daisy muttered. “See you later, Stephanie.”
“What? Daisy—”
She refused to slink away, but she left the yard and made her way inside to where Shane, one of her brothers, was finishing up.
But damn, did she want to slink away.
Because Dunk McCoy’s eyes had passed over Daisy like there wasn’t a difference between her and any of the women around her.
That meant one of two things. One, he’d hooked up with her at Jamie and Leda’s wedding and it hadn’t meant a thing. Two, he’d hooked up with her at Jamie and Leda’s wedding and he didn’t remember a thing.
“Uh, what’s wrong with you?” Shane demanded as they headed out.
“I’m just sad I can’t have a dog at my place,” she improvised.
“If you’d just moved back in with Mom and Dad instead of getting your own place, then—”
Daisy groaned, actually more like a wail of distress, really. “Come on,” she whined. “I’m twenty-six. I’ve been married and divorced. I’m not moving in with Mom and Dad. Even if I could have Lempicka and a dog.”
“But your apartment is so…”
“None of your business, is what it is,” she said, a slight edge of annoyance creeping into her sweet-sounding voice. “I’ve explained this a thousand times, I don’t know why y’all can’t accept it. I wasn’t making a living with my pottery, so I started to work for Dad and I got an apartment with cheap rent so that I can still do pottery, even if I’m not selling it.”
Shane’s mouth twisted guiltily. “I’m sorry about your pottery.”
With a huff, Daisy shoved him, her dainty execution belying the strength she put behind it, making him stumble for a step. “I tried, and it’s not like I thought I’d become Abe Anjin anyway,” she told him.
He hummed, still a little guiltily. “If you’re sure…”
“What would I do if I weren’t sure?” she asked practically.
That made him laugh and wrap his arm around her shoulder to give her a squeeze. “You’re right, Bouncy Ball,” he encouraged teasingly.
“I hate that nickname, ugh,” Daisy complained, wrinkling her nose.
Shane walked her to her apartment building, half a mile southwest of Maybelle Square, and as Daisy was pulling off her sneakers, her cell rang.
It was Stephanie. “Daisy! You just ran off!”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she said, wandering into her kitchen to find a snack.
After a second, Stephanie asked impatiently, “So? Why did you run off?”
Daisy looked down at the sink full of dishes, crusted with the sad leftovers of the meals-for-one she’d been microwaving every night.
Shaking off the self-doubt, she bit her lip and couldn’t help but giggle a little bit. “Um, so, you know Jamie and Leda’s wedding? Dunk and I…”
Stephanie gasped, and then started laughing hysterically. “That is so cool,” she said, “you have to tell me everything. Is he as good as they say?”
Heat flashed through Daisy, ghostly imprints of his hands echoing on her waist and ass and inner thighs. “Yeah,” she confirmed simply. When Stephanie growled, like one of the puppies she worked with at the vet’s, Daisy laughed and collapsed onto her futon. “Okay, okay,” she conceded with a small laugh. “I mean, we were pretty drunk, so I might have like… beer goggles. But yeah, it was so good. He was so good. Those hands, Stephanie.”
A melodramatic sigh crackled across the connection.
“And like… he treated me like a woman, Stephanie.”
“Oh,” Stephanie said, sounding more serious.
“I mean, obviously, I am a woman, but you know how the men in this town treat me. Like I’m some princess who’s been locked in a tower. Not that all that many have put their hands on me, but even Tyler—even when we were brand new, and everything was a lot of fumbling and figuring out how things can go—treated me so carefully. As if my body isn’t designed to have babies. You can’t be fragile and push an eight-pound baby out of your vajayjay.”
“Sing it, girl,” Stephanie snickered.
Daisy scratched her stomach lightly through her shirt. “Of course, we were in the back office at Wild Harts, so I’m not talking whips and chains here, but I had a couple bruises.” She heard the words come out, full of smug satisfaction but also awe, because, yeah, she knew she deserved to be treated with passion and concentration, but she never expected it.
“Wait,” Stephanie said after a few seconds of respectful silence, “is that why you ran off? Because he came over and said hi and didn’t…”
“Yep,” Daisy said glumly.
“He must not remember,” Stephanie declared loyally, making Daisy snort. “I’m serious, Daisy. You said you were both drunk. We know he has a reputation for, uh, his skills. But I’ve never heard someone say that he blew her off or pretended it never happened. If he knew he forgot being with you, he’d be so pissed! You’re totally worth at least a next-day text!”
At that, Daisy cracked up. “Wow, thanks, Stephanie.”
“Shut up, I’ve never had to give you this pep talk. Jesus knows I love Karen, but that girl sobs when she messages a stranger on whatever online dating app she’s using at the moment and doesn’t get a reply!”
“Oh my God, stop,” Daisy wheezed, “I’m going to pass out.”
Once they’d calmed down, Daisy thanked Stephanie and hung up, then got up again to get that snack she’d been going for when Stephanie called.
She turned on the TV to a rerun of Supernatural, and settled down.
Her hand slid across her tummy again. If someone were watching her, it would look accidental, just an idle, unconscious movement. But goose bumps rose and she pushed her head deeper into her pillow, fumbling with her other hand to turn the TV back off.
In the quiet, the space heater’s low-grade buzzing the only noise, Daisy’s hand stroked down and into her leggings and panties. A soft whimper fell past her lips as her brain connected with the nerves between her legs and she realized how primed she was just from seeing Dunk in a mud-streaked tee shirt.
Just from seeing the shape of his body and the grin on his face.
Because she’d learned the shape of him under her hands. She’d learned the shape of his mouth and neck and shoulder and bicep with her tongue. She’d learned how that grin felt on her breasts above her bra, on her thighs. Best, she’d learned the shape of him, blunt and searing hot even through a condom, riding her against the wall of the office, his hands under her thighs.
Now she’d learned it, and she couldn’t stop remembering it.
Her fingers were a poor substitute, too short and tiny, no calluses.
“Ah,” she gasped, because her fingers might be a poor substitute, but she had an excellent memory and a fantastic imagination, and it was enough.
Boneless, she slipped into her dreams.