CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

DANNY

“Fuck off.”

I glance at the bird and then back at Ronnie. “Think if I trademark that word, he’ll quit using it?”

She chuckles. “Pretty sure you can’t trademark the word fuck.”

“Could you imagine? Every rock band and romance writer would go out of business.”

“Speaking of business, you need to get moving. Your next appointment is in half an hour.”

I slide my arm around her waist and pull her flush to my body, then lower my lips next to her ear. “Thanks for being there for me during this ordeal with my mother,” I whisper, sending the fine hairs there fluttering.

She shivers. Not sure if it’s from the sensation of my breath on that sensitive area or the words, but I’m not taking them back. I’ve needed her by my side for this past week, and she hasn’t let me down. She’s so fucking perfect, and one of these days I need to figure out how to pay her back for all she’s done for me.

“I’m just glad she’s on the mend. Still think she’ll be home by the weekend?”

I straighten and nod without looking her in the eye. When that happens, I won’t be able to see Mom nearly as often. With her in the hospital, I’ve been able to visit every single day. I bribed one of the nurses to text me whenever my dad and Joe are gone, and that’s when I make my appearance.

By bribed, I mean I gave her one for free. Well, not that. Ronnie’s the only one for me in that regard.

What I mean is, I gave the nurse a free Rent-A-Danny consult. Hannah needed a little relationship advice, wanted to know if she should propose to her boyfriend, who was apparently petrified of doing it himself. Yesterday, I noticed she was sporting a glittery rock on her left hand, so I’m guessing she followed through with my suggestion of dinner and a date at the jewelry store.

“Good,” Ronnie says. “Maybe we can take her a casserole or something. Joe says your dad still hasn’t figured out how to cook. If your brother wasn’t staying there, he’d eat nothing but takeout.”

Well, that’s a buzzkill. A reminder that Ronnie and Joe have become—as she insists—“just friends.” We spent the ride home from the hospital last night with Ronnie swearing they hadn’t talked about anything of importance. But all week she’s made subtle comments, mild suggestions that I should consider attempting to repair the relationship between me and my brother.

“I can’t believe Joe knows how to cook,” I say. Mom spent lots of time teaching me how to get around in a kitchen, in an attempt to distract me from the fact that I was a lousy athlete and thus could never please my father. But Joe? He’d been too busy being an all-state football star, the baseball team MVP, the hockey enforcer. The only sport he’d ever sucked at—ironically enough—was golf.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about your brother.”

“On that note.” I tap her nose and open the door. Not in the mood for another Ronnie-turned-Mama Frost moment. I’d point it out to her, but the last time I did she got so pissed off, I ended up going home and sleeping at Erin and Garrett’s place. Danny’s Love Den doesn’t even feel like my own anymore now that I spend practically all my time at Ronnie’s apartment. Plus, I don’t enjoy sleeping alone anymore.

I pause before heading out into the hall. “Hey. When I’m done with this assignment, what say we go out? Like, you know, a date. And not Dutch, either. I want to take you out.”

Her eyes widen. Yeah, I’m not usually so flush and able to treat her like a lady. But things change, and while at one point I joked about being her cabana boy, I really do want to carry my own weight in this relationship.

In fact, I want this to actually be a relationship. That’s what we’ll talk about tonight, over dinner. We’ll define what we are, put a label on it. I’ll have answers for all her reasons for fearing it, and we’ll have a grand old time and then come back here to her apartment and make love until the sun comes up. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

I think we’ll start in the kitchen. I’ll lift her onto the counter and fuck her while her legs are wrapped around my hips. High heels mandatory.

Shit, I’m getting hard. The things this woman does to me. Or maybe that’s my overactive imagination. Or both.

“I gotta go,” I say, twisting slightly so she doesn’t see my wood, which, knowing her, could result in her dragging me back inside and having her wicked way with me. And I wouldn’t complain, but we might lose this new client, so I need to get a move on. “See you soon. Wear something sexy. With a thong. And high heels.”

Her chuckle chases me down the hall.

***

It’s midday, too late for the lunch crowd and too early for happy hour patrons, which means the bar I’m meeting my latest client at is pretty much deserted. There’s a silver-haired host who I think might be the owner, a pretty blonde bartender, and one dark-haired guy sitting at the bar, hunched over his drink. My client hasn’t arrived yet.

I belly up, leaving a few seats between me and the other guy, and ask the tender for a Summer Shanty in the bottle. She places it in front of me and wanders off to stack glasses. I take my first drink, and out of the corner of my eye see the other guy slide off his barstool. My client should be here any minute.

Then the guy drops onto the stool next to me, and I glance up sharply… at my brother. He’s sporting a full-on beard; clearly hasn’t shaved since he arrived in Chicago nearly a week ago, and he’s wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt that stretches across his massive chest, outlining every single bulge and angle. No matter how hard I work at it, I’ll never be as big as him. I’ve mostly come to terms with that.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Never mind. Listen, I can’t chat. Meeting a client.” I glance at my watch. It’s 2:35. Where’s my latest assignment? I start to slide off the stool when he drops his hand onto my arm.

“I’m your client,” he says.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I know what you do. Saw your website. Made an appointment online.”

“Son of a bitch. I need to get better at vetting those inquiries.”

He smirks. “Nice graphics, by the way.”

“Ronnie did them.” I’m glaring at him. My face is probably turning twenty shades of red as my blood pressure rises. Waiting for him to start trashing what I’ve chosen to do for a living. Just like Dad would do.

“Pretty ingenious. I bet you’re really good at it too.”

I freeze in the process of lifting the bottle to my mouth, and then I stay like that for far too long. My mouth is hanging open, too.

“Why do you look so damn surprised?” he grumbles, looking down at his own beer.

“I, uh, I guess I didn’t realize you knew what a compliment was.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I mean, I assume you know how to compliment the ladies. Or do you just flash your guns and they fall at your feet?”

Joe shrugs. “Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

I snort and then chug my beer until it’s empty. Holy shit, am I having a semi-normal conversation with my brother? We haven’t had one of these in…

“How long’s it been?” I ask while waving at the tender.

She grabs another Summer Shanty, popping the cap off as she walks toward me. Her gaze is on Joe as she places the bottle on the bar. “How about you, handsome?”

“What am I, chopped liver?” I mutter.

“Nope. You’re hot too,” she says. “But you’re not my type. You’re the stick-around-forever type. This guy, he looks like all he wants is a couple hours of my time. Which I’m totally down for.”

Joe lifts his brows. “We gotta go to your place.”

“That’s cool. I get off at seven.”

“Actually, you’ll be getting off at seven thirty,” Joe says, and I spew beer onto the bar. The tender chuckles and wipes it up before stepping away again.

“Holy shit, that was one of the worst pickup lines I’ve ever heard,” I say.

“It wasn’t a pickup line,” Joe shoots back. “We’d already made plans by that point.”

“I can’t believe you ever get laid. I mean, I can”—I wave at his gigantic arms—“but still, that was horrible. Also, I’m not the forever type. I don’t know where she got that from.”

“So you fix everyone else but haven’t a clue how to fix yourself, huh?”

“What are you, a fucking psychologist?”

“If I were, I would have figured out a way to mend our relationship long before now. So what were you asking before my next lay interrupted?”

“Do you even know her name?” I ask.

“Does it matter?”

“It should.”

“Why? We’re going to mutually satisfy each other for a few hours tonight and then go our separate ways and never speak again.”

“And you think I have issues.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware I have issues. But I’ve learned to live with them. You, on the other hand, have been living in denial for, what? Ten years?”

“Is that how long it’s been since we talked? I mean, actually had a conversation that didn’t end in a shouting match. Or has it been longer?”

He stares into his beer, like it’s a crystal ball and might supply an answer. Finally he says, “I think it’s been longer. You were, what? In fifth grade when I moved to California for college. By my sophomore year, you and Dad had started fighting. By my senior year, you were blaming me as much as you blamed him. So yeah, it’s been a hell of a long time since we’ve done this.”

“If I was in fifth grade, I’m pretty sure we’ve never done this.” I mock salute him with my beer. He drains his mug and signals to the bartender.

“It’s kind of nice,” he says.

“Don’t get sappy. It’s just weird.”

The hot blonde behind the bar refills his drink, gives him a wink, then glances over her shoulder at the clock. He nods, acknowledging her signal. What the hell? If I didn’t have Ronnie waiting at home, I’d have yet another trait to add to my arsenal of Things About Joe To Be Jealous Of.

“I’m not being sappy,” he says. “I just want my brother back.”

“I never left.”

“Emotionally, you did.”

He’s right, but it was out of self-preservation. I had to distance myself in order to figure out how to be myself. Except all I did was become the guy who rebelled against everything about my family. Makes me wonder who the hell I’m really supposed to be.

“I started watching the Black Hawks again,” I admit.

“Why, just because they’re finally winning after that long-ass losing streak?”

“Maybe.”

“You missed a hell of a lot of awesome sports action by refusing to enjoy them just because you couldn’t play yourself.”

“I went to enough of your games when I was a kid to last a lifetime.”

Joe shrugs. “Some of us are good at sports. Some of us are good at giving people relationship advice. Everybody has a talent.”

I stare at the damp label on my bottle. “That’s not how Dad sees it.”

Joe is silent for a minute. “Our father never got over the fact that he went pro for less than one season.” I hear the hesitation in his voice. “He spent his entire life up to that point working toward that goal. And then he ended up with that slipped disc or whatever the hell went wrong with his back, and he was pretty much lost when they told him he’d have to give up his dreams. The worst part: the injury wasn’t even a result of playing, which I think would have made it easier on him. But the fact that his body, his temple, betrayed him, well, it fucked with his head.”

“And then you came along and you were as perfect as him, so he poured all his hopes and dreams into you.”

He nods. “Yep. It was tough living up to his expectations, especially since the sport I ultimately chose barely passed muster, in his eyes.”

I snort. “Professional skateboarding isn’t good enough, eh?”

“He got over it, eventually. Came out to Cali for a week and went through endurance training with me. Tried to keep up, at any rate. That’s when he decided I had his approval to be a pro skater.” Joe rolls his eyes. “I spent a lot of time wondering if I chose my path deliberately because I thought he wouldn’t like it.” He gives me a swift glance. “Maybe you and I are more alike than you think.”

I snort. “The only thing we have in common is an abhorrent inability to play golf well. Or have you finally mastered that particular skill?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Still suck.”

“That’s oddly comforting. Although now that Erin’s married to a golf pro, I’m banking on Garrett taking pity on me one of these days and teaching me the ways of the game.”

“I remember when Dad told me you started hanging out with Erin, but you clearly weren’t dating. He was worried that you were gay on top of your lack of any athletic ability.”

“I wish I’d realized that. I would have started acting like I was flaming.”

“All you would have done was push him further away. He didn’t get why you did the things you did. He’s not one for subtleties.”

“I didn’t think I was being subtle. I believe at one point I said the words, ‘I hate you because you think I’m a failure.’”

“Okay, fine. I don’t know what to tell you. I just know that he doesn’t hate you. And I think he regrets the way he handled things. He just… I don’t know. He’s not good at communicating.”

“Let’s talk about something else. This is depressing the hell out of me.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s talk about Ronnie.”

The hair on my arms stands on end as this odd little chill chases down my spine. “What about her?”

Joe takes a drink while watching the tender, who’s bent over loading pint glasses onto a shelf under the bar. “What’s she like?”

I want to say off limits. Because she is exactly my brother’s type and I’ve already lost so much to him—like, my entire fucking childhood—that I can’t fathom the thought of losing her too. Except technically, she isn’t mine to lose. Not yet. Not until tonight, when we make it official. Hopefully. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s ready to take that step. For all I know, as soon as I suggest it, she’s going to tell Pucker and me to get the hell out of her life.

I never realized I have so damn many insecurities until now.

“She says you two have struck up a friendship. So why are you asking me?”

“She said that?” Why does he sound so damn cheerful? “I’ve never had a female friend before. They’ve always been classified into three categories: fuckable, already fucked, and not interested.”

“I hope I can assume Ronnie doesn’t fall into ‘already fucked’?”

“Nope. But definitely fuckable.”

She is that.

“She’s cool, though. Reminds me of someone I knew back in my college days. Someone I probably should have tried harder to keep in my life.”

Shit. I’ve got to convince Ronnie to commit to a relationship with me, before my brother decides to set his sights on her.

***

“Fuck me,” Pucker says when I step into the apartment two hours later.

“Hello to you too,” I say.

“She’s hot,” he responds and I chuckle. Then Ronnie walks out of the bedroom and the laugh dies away. My mouth falls open and my eyes stare so hard they start to water.

“Holy Christ, is she ever,” I whisper, taking in every inch of the perfection that is Ronnie Frost.

She’s wearing this black dress with cut-outs at the shoulders and a hemline that ends in a little ruffle about halfway down her thighs. On her feet are red stilettos with tiny straps around her ankles. Her hair is a mass of waves around her head and draping over her shoulder, her eyes are dark and smoky, and her lipstick matches the shoes.

“Fuck me is right,” I say. “I think maybe we should stay in tonight.”

She laughs. “No way. For as long as it took me to put this together, we’re going to make it worth it.”

“Oh, we’re definitely going to make it worth it.” I stride over and pull her into my arms, rub my hard-on against her hip. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”

“Wow. Now that’s high praise.”

“It’s 100 percent accurate.” Assuming she doesn’t want me to muss the lipstick, I kiss her cheek, nibble my way to her ear, and give her lobe a little suckle.

She whimpers, grabs my face, and puckers up, kissing me with the kind of fervor no man can say no to. Like I’d even consider it.

I press her back against the wall and drop my hand to the hem of her dress, sliding up her leg to cup her ass cheek. She’s wearing a thong. I bet it’s fire-engine red. I push it out of the way so I can run my fingers through her folds. She’s already slick, wet, ready for me. All the blood in my system has gone south. All I can focus on at the moment is connecting with this woman, getting as close to her as humanly possible. Inside her.

We’re on the same wavelength, because she’s scrabbling at my belt buckle, unbuttoning my shorts, tugging at the zipper, getting them down just far enough so she can grasp my erection and give it a couple strokes. My eyes roll into the back of my head as I thrust my fingers into her, in and out, copying her movements.

She releases my member so she can dig around in the tiny handbag hanging from her wrist. I groan when she pulls out a condom packet. My beautiful, brilliant Ronnie. So fucking perfect.

I need to make this woman mine.

She uses her teeth to rip open the foil wrapper, then she rolls the rubber over my shaft while I continue to fuck her with my fingers. When she’s done, I extract my digits and cup her thighs, lifting her off her feet and using the wall for leverage as I position myself to impale her. She reaches down, guides me toward home, and then I thrust, pushing into her while she wraps her legs around my hips, exactly as I’d imagined earlier, except I planned to do this on the kitchen counter instead of against the wall. And you know what? It’s still just as fucking amazing as I expected it to be.

She rolls her hips and shoves her hands under my shirt while her heels dig into my ass. I’m so damn close I’m seeing stars. Her inner muscles contract, and she throws her head back, smacking it against the wall while she makes this keening noise. I start pistoning like a damn machine, my balls tightening against my body, my dick swelling even more, until I finally let loose, emptying everything I’ve got into her—my mind, my body, my soul. Everything.

“Well,” she says as I pull out and slowly let her feet drop to the ground, “ready for our date now?”