Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) (6 page)

“Why are you here?” he asked, beyond annoyed that she’d shown up and disrupted the game.

She smiled—the full-lipped tilt of her mouth that he recognized after one day of being around her—but she didn’t answer. He skated closer to the wall and his stick dropped from his hands. “What do you want?”

“To give you what you need.”

There were so many things he needed. So many. Starting with the need to feel something other than constant nagging pain and the void in his life.

“Lucky you,” she whispered.

Mark’s eyes flew open and he gasped for breath. He sat up too fast, and the remote fell to the floor. His head spun as he glanced at the clock on the bottom left of his television screen. He’d been asleep for an hour. Jesus, she’d intruded in his life. Now she’d infiltrated his dreams. Of all the faceless people in his dreams, why was her face clear?

He reached down and grabbed his cane resting on the floor. Thank God the dream hadn’t been sexual. He didn’t even want to think about getting it up for his assistant. Not even in a dream.

The splint on his hand itched, and he tore it off. Tossing the Velcro and aluminum aside, he slowly stood and made his way from the room. Why
her
? It wasn’t that the little assistant wasn’t cute. She was plenty cute, and God knew she had a body that could stop traffic, but she was just so damn annoying. The rubber tip of his cane thumped across the stone floor and his flip-flops slapped the heels of his feet. Rested and his pain somewhat dulled, he walked with relative ease.

In the kitchen, the Bartell sack with the condoms, KY, and vibrating ring lay atop the granite island. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with that stuff. It wasn’t like he was going to use it anytime soon. He opened a drawer and shoved it inside.

He didn’t know what he was going to do with his assistant either. Too bad he couldn’t shove her in a drawer and lock her inside. He thought of her driving
his
new Mercedes like she owned the road. He thought of her face when she’d first slid into the leather driver’s seat. She’d looked like she’d been about to orgasm. Under different circumstances, he might have pulled her into his lap. Under different circumstances, he might have thought the way she’d caressed his leather was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Under current circumstances, it had been just one more thing to irritate him.

More than likely, the woman would be back tomorrow. His optimism of a while ago faded. For reasons that he couldn’t begin to understand, she seemed to actually want to be his assistant. Maybe she was a little off in the head. No, she was definitely off in the head because why else would she buy condoms and KY when she clearly didn’t want to?

Chelsea would put up with a lot for ten thousand dollars. “He made me buy him condoms,” she told the back of her sister’s dark head. “And warming KY.”

Bo looked over her shoulder and reached for a half gallon of milk. “Well, he’s a hockey player,” she said, as if that explained and excused it. “And he always did have a lot of different girlfriends. At least he’s using protection.”

“And a vibrating ring.”

“What’s that?”

“A cock ring that vibrates.”

Bo glanced about the dairy aisle at Safeway to make sure no one could overhear them before she set the milk in the cart. “They make those?”

“Apparently, and in case you ever need one, there are three different kinds available at Bartell drugstore. The duo, the magnum, and the intense pleasure. The duo has two pleasure buttons, one on each side. The magnum is self-explanatory, and the intense pleasure vibrates faster for—you know, intense pleasure.”

“You read each package?”

“It’s my job.” Although, really, she’d read out of curiosity more than anything else. It wasn’t like she was a vibrating ring expert.

“Have you ever…” Bo lowered her voice and glanced around one more time. “…used one?”

“No.” But if she ever got a boyfriend she might. Buying those condoms today reminded her that it had been seven months since her last relationship.

And because Bo was as nosy as her twin, she asked, “Which did you buy Mark?”

“He made me buy the magnum because he was concerned about cutting off his circulation.”

Bo’s brows rose up her forehead. “Magnum? That’s scary.”

Chelsea pushed the cart farther down the produce case. “You’ve seen one?”

“Not in person.” Bo shook her head. “Just in the porn movies David used to watch,” she said, referring to a past boyfriend. “Do you think he’s really a magnum or he just wanted to shock you?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. It’s too disturbing.”

“That’s true,” her sister agreed. “You have to work for him tomorrow, and that’s the last thing you want to be thinking about when you walk into his house.” They moved a few more feet down the dairy aisle, and Bo glanced at her list. “I know Mark isn’t really mobile, but making you buy him condoms and stuff was really uncalled for.”

“I thought so, but I’ve had to do worse.”

Bo put her hand on the cart and stopped it next to the butter. Concern etched her brow. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what?”

“Well, taking back designer dresses to places like Saks with big armpit stains was always embarrassing. Picking up prescriptions for various sexually transmitted diseases was mortifying, and breaking up with someone else’s girlfriend or boyfriend was sad.”

“Oh.” Bo sighed and reached for some cottage cheese.

Her sister looked so relived, Chelsea had to ask, “What did you think I was going to say was worse? That I was working for a madam in the Hollywood Hills?”

“No.” They continued beneath the fluorescent lights of the Safeway. “I just hoped that you never had to do anything illegal.”

There was illegal. Then there was
illegal
. She’d mostly just committed your ordinary illegal stuff. Run a red light. Drove too fast. Hopped aboard the ganja train at a few parties in the past. “Do we need some butter?” she asked, purposely changing the subject before her sister could ask any specific questions.

Bo shook her head and checked milk and cottage cheese off her list. “Jules never came back after lunch.”

“Hmm.” Chelsea picked up several containers of fat-free cherry yogurt.

“Did he go to the Spitfire with you?”

“No.” She dumped the yogurt into the cart. “Do you want string cheese? We used to love string cheese.”

“I don’t want any.” Bo moved to the eggs. “What do you think of Jules?”

“I think he works hard to look good.” She grabbed some key lime yogurt too. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Except he’s full of himself.”

Chelsea hadn’t gotten that impression. “If you work hard on your body, you kind of have the right to brag about it. If I worked out, I’d brag. But I don’t, because I hate pain.”

“He’s rude too.” Bo opened the egg carton and checked for breakage. “And obnoxious.”

A harried mother with three kids hanging out of her cart wheeled past, and Chelsea looked at her sister. “I didn’t think so. Maybe he’s a little cynical.”

Bo looked over at her as she shut the carton. “Why do you say he’s cynical?”

“Because he said something about love not working out. My guess is that he’s had his heart broken a few times.” She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the handle of the cart. “But haven’t we all?”

“He used to weigh a lot, and I think he still sees himself as the fat kid in school.”

“You’re kidding. He doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him now,” Chelsea said as Bo put the eggs in the seat of the cart next to their purses. “He’s ripped and he has those beautiful green eyes. You should date him.”

“Jules?” Bo made a gagging sound.

“You should. He’s very cute, and you two have a lot in common.”

“What are you planning to do tomorrow?” her sister asked and changed the subject.

“I’m not sure.” Chelsea recognized the maneuver and let her. “I’ve never worked for someone who doesn’t have a list as long as my arm and expects the impossible. Mark said something about wanting to move out of Medina. So maybe I’ll start looking at real estate options for him. His house is too damn big for one guy anyway.”

“Most of the athletes around here live downtown, or on Mercer, or in Newport Hills.” She pushed the cart toward the butcher block. “At least I think a lot of the Seahawks and Chinooks still live in Newport. That’s how it became known as Jock Rock.”

Chelsea made a mental note to check real estate listings in those areas. “What movie are we going to watch tonight?”

“How about something with aliens?” Bo suggested and grabbed a package of hamburger.

Chelsea reached for a produce baggy above the chicken. “Something not cheesy, like
Independence Day
? Maybe a little cheesy, like
Men in Black
? Or heavy on the cheese, like
Critters
?”

“Heavy, like
Mars Attacks!
”

“Good call. A little black comedy and with a dash of political satire, all wrapped up in B-movie parody. Gotta love Tim Burton.”

“You aren’t going to quote dialog throughout the whole movie are you?” Bo sighed. “I just want to kill you when you do that.”

Chelsea grabbed a package of legs and thighs. In L.A., she and her friends had recited lines during movies. It had been part of the fun. At least for them. “You mean like, ‘Little people, why can’t we all just get along?’”

Though it wasn’t easy, Chelsea controlled herself during
Mars Attacks!
and didn’t recite dialog. Afterward, she grabbed her laptop and climbed into bed. She placed the computer in front of her crossed knees and turned it on. A picture of Christian Bale, all duded up in
3:10 to Yuma
, popped up on her desktop. She’d never met Christian Bale but she admired any actor who could play Jesus in one movie and Batman in the next and do both roles justice. Sure, he had a bit of an anger problem. So did Russell Crowe, but that didn’t make either of them bad actors. Although she did have to admit that if Christian didn’t learn to control himself like Russell had, she’d have to find someone else to love from afar.

She plugged in her Verizon PC card and logged onto the Internet. She purposely didn’t click on her bookmarks. She didn’t want to know any of the Hollywood gossip or read what producer was looking to fill what roles in what movie. When she returned to L.A., she’d contact her agency and tell them she was back and to send out her portfolio again.

Everyone in her family thought she had stars in her eyes. Maybe she did, but her feet were firmly rooted in reality. She knew that in Hollywood, landing a role after the age of thirty was about as easy as landing a man. But that didn’t mean that her only option was to slide her feet into Crocs, get a cat, and give up.

While she searched properties in the Seattle area and bookmarked the homes and condos she thought Mark might be interested in seeing, she thought about her life in L.A. Parts of it had been exciting and really fun and she missed hanging out with friends. But there was a dark side too. The horror stories of sex and drugs were too numerous to count. Young actors arriving in town, dreaming of making it big, only to be used and discarded like garbage. The desperation at casting calls was truly sickening, and she didn’t miss scrambling for bit roles and walk-on parts. She didn’t miss standing around movie sets for twelve hours, dressed as a serving wench with her breasts hanging out for a period film. She’d liked working on horror films. She liked being part of a cast. She liked playing a part and becoming another person for a few hours. It was fun and exciting. She looked forward to getting back to L.A. and getting the chance to score roles other than the slutty bimbo.

First, though, she had to stick it out for three months with a crabby hockey player.

She clicked on a few more sites and found several very promising real estate options. She bookmarked them also, then she decided to Google Mark himself. One of her brows lifted in surprise as she looked at over a million results and a dozen fan sites dedicated to “the Hitman.”

“Geez.” It wasn’t like he was Brad Pitt.

On his official Web site, she watched video clips of him scoring goals, skating with his stick held above his head, or dropping his gloves and throwing punches. In interviews, he laughed and joked and talked about how much winning the Stanley Cup would mean to him and the rest of the Chinooks. Each site was filled with various still photos of him, looking all rough and sweaty while he shot the puck. The photos ranged from him having blood on his face to looking clean-cut and smiling in his head shots.

She clicked on a link and she watched a Gatorade commercial of him dressed in nothing but a pair of hockey shorts hanging low on his hips. On her computer screen, he slowly tipped his head back, brought the bright green bottle to his lips, and downed the sports drink. A color-enhanced, neon-green drop leaked from the corner of his mouth and slid down his jaw and the side of his throat. Dark hair covered his big chest, and Bo had been right. The man had an eight-pack. What her sister hadn’t mentioned was the dark happy trail that ran down the center of his smooth, flat belly and circled his navel before diving beneath those shorts. Oh baby. Chelsea had worked in Hollywood and she’d seen a lot of hard male bodies. Mark’s was one of the most impressive she’d seen outside of a body-building contest on Venice Beach.

She read his goals and point averages, not that she had a real clue what any of that meant, but even Wikipedia said it was impressive, so she supposed it was. She found a fan site with a photo of him tearing down the ice, and she clicked on a link titled “Bressler quotes.”

Her gaze skimmed a few quotes about playing hockey before stopping on “I don’t celebrate coming in second place.” She didn’t know him well, but she could imagine him saying something like that. When asked what it was like to be the captain of the Chinooks, he’d answered, “I’m just one of the guys. On the bus or airplane, I just sit in the back, play cards, and try to take the guys’ money.” The quote that surprised her the most was, “As a kid, I knew I wanted to play professional hockey. My father worked a lot to afford my skates, and Grandmother always told me I could be anything I wanted to be. I believed her and here I am. I owe a lot to them both.” Most people thanked their parents, but his
grandmother
? That was different and unexpected. A smile curved one side of her lips. Mentioning his father and grandmother almost made him human. In fact, in all the pictures and video clips he appeared more human than the guy she knew. There was just something different about him now. Something more than the different way he walked and the way he used his right hand. Something dark. Hard.

On another Web site, the owner had put up three different photographs of Mark’s mangled Hummer. This time both Chelsea’s brows lifted in surprise as she looked at the twisted wreckage. The man truly was lucky to be alive. A fourth photo of him being wheeled from the hospital appeared on a second page. The picture was somewhat blurry, but there was no mistaking those dark eyes glowering from his face.

There.

That was him. That was the guy she worked for. The hard, dark, gloomy man.

She knew that head injuries could change a man or woman’s personality. She wondered if it had changed his. If it had, she wondered if he’d ever get those laughing, joking pieces of his life back. Not that it really mattered to her. She was only sticking around for three months until she got that ten grand.

On the official Chinooks’ site, the organization had put up a guest book for fans who wanted to express their best wishes for Mark’s recovery. More than seven thousand people had signed in to the book to wish him well. Some of the notes were very nice, and she wondered if Mark even knew that so many people had taken the time to write. She wondered if he cared.

Before she closed her laptop and turned off the bedroom light for the night, she Googled plastic surgeons in the Seattle area. She paid attention to where they’d gone to school and how many years they’d been in practice. Mostly though, she looked at before and after pictures of breast reductions. She wasn’t a jealous person, but envy stabbed her soul as she studied the photos. For many different reasons, she wanted so badly to be reduced from her double-D cups to a C. She wanted to run and jump without pain. Not that she would, but it would be nice to have the option. She wanted to be taken as seriously as average-sized women. In Hollywood, she’d been hired to fill out the costume, not so much for her acting ability. And in L.A., everyone automatically assumed she had implants, which had always kind of irritated her.

She’d like to have sex without her heavy breasts bouncing around. As she was now, she preferred to have sex with a bra on. It was more comfortable, but not all the men she’d been with liked it.

She’d been a double D since the tenth grade. It had been humiliating and painful, and probably the reason Bo had such a difficult time finding men she trusted. Even now, sometimes men
and
women took one look at her and Bo and assumed they were nymphomaniacs. It still baffled her to this day. She didn’t know what having large breasts had to do with sexual promiscuity. The truth was that because of the size of her breasts, she was more uptight about sex than other women she knew.

One of the biggest reasons she wanted a reduction was that she’d like people to talk to her face, not her chest. She’d like, just once, to meet a man who didn’t stare at her breasts. A man like Mark Bressler.

A frown dented her forehead. Mark Bressler might not stare at her breasts, but he was a jerk in many other ways. Many just as offensive ways. Like insulting her clothes, her intelligence,
and
her driving skills.

“Hey.” Bo stuck her head in the room, and Chelsea shut her computer so Bo wouldn’t see the breast reduction befores and afters on the screen. “Jules just called and wanted me to ask you if Mark was going to play in the Chinooks’ celebrity golf tournament in a few weeks. He’s always played in the past.”

“Why doesn’t Jules ask him?”

“Because Mark doesn’t always answer his phone.” Bo smiled. “But now he has you.”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Last night I visited a Web page that the Chinooks set up after the accident. Your fans can log on and send you a special message. It’s really nice.”

Mark sat at his desk and looked over the real estate property that his assistant had pulled up on his computer. He was only going along with her plan because he actually did want to move. He’d spent more time in this house in the last month than he had in the last five years. Or at least it seemed like it. The house was a constant reminder of his past and the walls were closing in on him.

He scratched the stubble on his chin with his left hand as he leaned forward for a better look at the square footage of the house on the screen. He’d showered earlier, dressed in his usual T-shirt and jogging pants, but hadn’t bothered shaving because he wasn’t planning on leaving the house today.

“Did you know about the page?”

He shook his head as he maneuvered the mouse. It was difficult with the bulky splint on his right hand. Maybe someone had told him about the page. He didn’t recall. Whether from the drugs or from the hit to his head, his memory of the last six months was sketchy. “Like a memorial page?”

“No. Like a place where they could send you their best wishes for your recovery. Over seven thousand hockey fans have written letters and notes to you.”

Only seven thousand? Mark glanced up from the computer monitor on his desk. He looked over his shoulder and raised his gaze past his assistant’s big breasts covered in shiny gold ruffles, up her throat, and into her blue eyes. Today she wore a short, crazy-colored skirt, probably “Pucci,” and a pair of big wedge sandals that clunked across his floor when she walked. Her clothes were toned down, for her.

“Are you going to answer them?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate hockey fans, he certainly did, but he hated writing a short grocery list let alone seven thousand e-mails. “No.”

“You could send out one mass thank-you. I really think it’s the decent thing to do.”

“Good thing I don’t care what you think.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I’ve also been asked if you plan on playing in the Chinooks’ celebrity golf tournament this summer?”

She was like a gnat buzzing around his head, annoying the hell out of him. Too bad he couldn’t swat her. If he thought for one minute that a good swat on her ass would offend her and she’d go away, he might be tempted. It was just after eleven
A.M
. and he was tired as hell. His physical therapist, Cyrus, had stopped by earlier and they’d worked out for an hour in the gym upstairs. But that wasn’t the only thing causing his fatigue. He hadn’t slept well the night before because he hadn’t taken his sleeping medication. Partly because he wanted to see if he still needed it and partly because he didn’t want any more freaky dreams where the assistant popped up.

She tilted her head to one side, and the ends of her bright reddish-pink hair brushed one side of her soft neck. “Did you hear me, Mr. Bressler?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He turned back to the monitor and looked at the real estate property in Newport Hills. It was on the water and he wasn’t interested. Living close to any water was damn buggy. “I’m not playing this year.”

“Why? You’ve always played in the past.”

“I can’t play one-handed.” Which wasn’t necessarily true. If he wanted to play, he’d play holding a club with his teeth.

“I could help.”

He almost laughed, and clicked on the next property she thought might interest him. “Yeah? How?” Stand in front of him and hold the club with her right hand while he held it with his left? He thought of her back pressed against his chest, his nose in her hair, and his hand just above hers on his nine iron. His brain skidded to a halt at the double entendre, and an odd weight settled at the top of his stomach.

“I could look into special clubs.”

The weight was so unexpected it disturbed him. Probably because he recognized it. He hadn’t felt anything like it in a long time, but he knew the heavy pull for what it was. “A club for disabled players? No thanks.” The last thing he wanted was to feel any sort of
anything
for the assistant. It wasn’t like he was opposed to feeling desire for a woman again, just not this woman.

She leaned forward and pointed to the condo on the screen, and he was forced to look at her small hand and the smooth skin of her fingers and palm. She kept her nails short, and without any sort of color. Usually he liked color. His gaze slid to the delicate blue vein of her wrist. She was so close that if he wanted, he could press his mouth to the inside of her bare elbow. She was so close that he was surrounded by the scent of her perfume. It was kind of flowery and fruity, just like her.

“The view out the windows is spectacular,” she said and leaned a bit closer. Her hair fell forward and her soft breast brushed the back of his shoulder. The weight in his stomach slid a few inches lower and if he didn’t know better, he’d suspect that he was about to get turned on.

“I don’t want to live downtown. It’s too noisy.”

“You’d be high and wouldn’t hear it.”

“I don’t get the good drugs anymore. I’d hear it,” he said, and brought up a house in Queen Anne. Maybe the feeling in his stomach had to do with his medication.