Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1) (14 page)

LILLY

November 14h

Mad Batter Bakery

Los Angeles, CA

Colt is early. I pull up to the bakery at three fifty-five to find him waiting for me by the door. My headlights sweep over him where he leans against the building. A tall, white coffee cup is between his hands, one ankle crossed casually over the over. He’s dressed in jeans and a black V-neck pullover, the collar popped against the early morning chill. He smiles when he sees me, crooked and cocky, and every tired piece of me wakes up instantly like I’ve had a shot of caffeine straight to the vein.

I could get used to this, to seeing him. To that smile and those eyes. Those lips.

“What’s up, Beautiful?” he calls when I open my door. He’s there fast as lightning, his hand on my elbow as I slide down to the ground, his lips on my cheek kissing me chastely in greeting.

“Whoa, you are charming as shit this morning, aren’t you?” I chuckle.

He smiles brilliantly. “I’m in a good mood.”

“Are you ever not in a good mood?”

“Only when we lose a game. You don’t want to be around me at the tail end of a loss.” He holds out the coffee to me. “I brought you this.”

“Thanks. You didn’t get one?”

“I already drank it on the way over.”

I gratefully take it from his hands, immediately thrilling at the warmth of the cup. But when I take a sip I almost spit it back out.

“How much sweetener is in here?” I gasp.

Colt shrugs. “A lot.”

“Holy dammit. That is not coffee. That’s… that’s something else. That’s what they feed to hummingbirds.”

“You don’t want it?”

“Will you be offended if I say it’s undrinkable?”

“Nope.” He plucks the cup from my hands, taking a big swig and smacking his lips happily. “More for me.”

“Thank you for the thought.”

“Thanks for being honest about hating it. I’ve given that same drink to other people and they’ve sworn up and down that they love it.”

“You didn’t believe them?”

He laughs, shaking his head, dipping his free hand into his pocket. “No. They looked disgusted the whole time, but people don’t want to offend you when you’re, uh… recognizable.”

I grin. “Are you trying to avoid using the word ‘famous’?”

He lifts his cup to his lips, his eyes watching me over the rim. “Maybe.”

“You can say it.”

“You don’t like it.”

I step past him toward the store. “I don’t like the way you take your coffee either, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like
you
.”

I open the store, locking the door behind him when he follows me in.

“So you like me now?” he clarifies happily. “We’ve upgraded from thinking about it to actually doing it?”

I flush, embarrassed by his point blank approach to everything. “You say ‘we’ a lot.”

“I like the way it feels with you. Don’t you?”

So, so, so much,
I think zealously.

I grin calmly at him. “Yeah. I like it.”

“And me,” he drives home. “You like me.”

“Yes. I like you. A lot.”

“Good.”

He leans down fast as lightning, his sugar coated lips finding mine. They linger just long enough to send my brain and body into overdrive, frying half my circuits. He pulls away only slightly, a lazy smile on his face.

“I’ve thought about that nonstop since last night,” he rumbles deep and low.

I blink rapidly, clearly the smoke from my mind. “So have I.”

“Were you mad I woke you up yesterday?”

“No. I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.”

We talked for two hours. I was in and out a couple times, dozing off when the conversation lulled, but Colt always pulled me back, his voice quiet and deep in my ear in a way that sent shivers down my spine. Right around the time my phone started begging for the charger he fell silent. I whispered his name once. Twice. His only reply was steady breathing and a slight snore. It felt intimate being in bed listening to him sleep, like he was there with me. Like I was being granted access to this vulnerable part of him that the masses would never see. It gave me hope that maybe there is some part of him that he keeps separate from the world.

That maybe I actually could be something he keeps for himself. That his interest in me could be real.

It’s a heady thought, an exhilarating idea that makes me lean into him for another kiss. Another taste of sweetness from his smiling lips to mine.

His kiss is my new favorite dessert.

His kiss is raindrops on my decks.

Colt runs his fingers through my hair, dancing them lightly over my shoulder and down my back. “Did you decide what we’re baking today?”

“No, but I have an idea. One I think you’re gonna like.”

I lead him back through the kitchen where I flip the ovens on to preheat them before we head to the office. It’s a cramped space, barely bigger than a closet. It’s stuffed to bursting with a desk, a filing cabinet, two chairs, and a Kodiak practically twice my size.

I dig inside the cabinet in search of the digital camera. “Can I take your picture?”

Colt snorts. “I’m offended it’s taken you this long to ask.”

“It’s not for me. I need it for today’s special.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Sugar cookies,” I proclaim proudly, pulling the big black camera out of its hiding place. I wave it at Colt. “With your picture on them, if that’s okay with you.”

“Clothes on or off?”

“On,” I laugh. “We’re a G-rated bakery. PG at our worst.”

“How are you going to put my picture on a cookie?”

“We have a printer with edible ink and paper. We use it to make cakes with people’s pictures on them. I’ll take a pic of your smiling face,” I say, cupping his chin in my hand and gently shaking it side to side, “we’ll whip up some two inch sugar cookies, and print the picture out to fit on top.”

“You sure you want to use my face? I know it looks good, but it’s not my best feature. For that you gotta go below the waist.”

“G-rated bakery,” I remind him patiently.

He grins down at me. “Why do you gotta make everything dirty? I was talking about my calves. They’re killer. Have you seen them?”

“You’re so full of it, and yourself. How do you fit food inside your body packed so tightly with ego and bullshit?”

“I had a kidney removed.”

“Smart.”

“Can you add text to the picture?”

“Depends. What do you want to write on it?”

He smiles. “Eat me.”

I laugh, nodding my head. “It’s a little PG, but we’ll go with it.” I take his hand in mine, pulling him out of the office. He follows willingly. “Now come over here where the wall is blank. I only have a half hour before I have to start my regular prep.”

I get him set up in front of a plain section of green wall. The color makes the darkness of his sweater stand out, along with his tan skin and brilliant eyes. I lift the camera to take a few quick test shots.

“Any directions, coach?” he asks amiably.

“You’ve done more photoshoots than I have. You can do whatever you want.”

“Do you want sexy or funny?”

I pause, considering. Thinking about who we’re targeting this cookie to. It’s not guys, that’s for sure.

“Sexy,” I request, focusing in on his face. “If you can manage it.”

He laughs briefly before setting down his coffee cup. I’m about to tell him that it doesn’t matter because I’m only looking at him from the chest up like a driver’s license, but I quickly close my mouth.

Colt’s face composes instantly, his chin dropping down and to the right. His lips lift on one side, that same crooked grin he gave me the other day when he showed up here. The one that made me feel like I was falling. It’s intensified today, made more powerful by the smoldering look in his eyes that somehow say so many things with a single expression. They’re challenging and inviting. Like a warning and a promise wrapped together.

Like he’s planning very wicked things, but don’t worry; you’ll enjoy them.

He doesn’t look like the guy I spent an entire night with or the guy I pictured on the phone all afternoon. He looks like the guy in the Dairy Queen ad. The one on the Playgirl cover.

I snap several pictures in quick order, the disappointment on my face carefully hidden behind the bulky camera. “Do you practice this in front of a mirror?”

“I practice everything. I don’t like being bad at anything.”

“Is there anything you’re not good at?”

Click.

“Cooking,” he answers.

I smile. “I knew that one.”

Click.

“Electronics. I’ve had five tablets in two years. Three different phones. Every one of them has crashed.”

“What’d you do to them?”

“If I knew that they probably wouldn’t have crashed.”

I laugh, sympathizing with those tablets. Colt Avery is a walking EMP. He destroys my circuitry every time he gets close.

“Anything else?” I ask curiously.

Click. Click.

“Losing.”

“Good thing you don’t do it very often. What are you guys? Six and three?”

He smiles and it’s him; it’s Colt. Not the model but the man. “You looked it up, didn’t you?”

I shrug, snapping another picture. This one is my favorite by far. “I might have Googled it.”

“The team or me?”

“The team. I figured if I Googled you…” I lower the camera, carefully meeting his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what the internet thinks is your highlight reel.”

His face falls serious, his appearance changing again like a chameleon on crack. “I’m not ashamed of my life. I’m actually pretty damn proud of it.”

“I’m not saying you should be ashamed. That’s not what I meant. I meant that I want to get to know
you
. Not an image of you.”

“She said taking his picture.”

I chuckle awkwardly, running the strap on the camera through my fingers. “Right. Yeah.”

He holds out his hand to me. “Come here.”

I let him pull me close to him. He takes the camera from me, turning it to face us.

“It’s not easy to take a selfie with that thing,” I warn him.

He maneuvers the long fingers on his large hand around the casing, easily holding it with the lens pointed at us and his finger on the trigger.

“Or it’s really easy,” I mutter.

His body shakes mine with silent laughter. “Smile pretty.”

I do as he says, smiling big even though it hurts. My face is sore from how often I’ve smiled with him in the last few days, and I think that shouldn’t happen to a person. I shouldn’t be out of shape at being happy. I feel it when I’m with him, though. Like I’m getting a much needed workout. Like he’s a trainer getting me back into form.

I lean into him, my head on his shoulder the way I thought about last night. It’s better than I imagined. Solid and warm, that scent of his curling around me in an embrace I can feel everywhere, even before his arm goes around me to hold me closer. We’re looking up at the blank eye of the lens, smiling as he takes multiple shots to make sure no one is blinking because the guy is a pro at this. I wonder briefly how he can stand to stare into a lens so often, for so long. Giving and giving to a vacuum that will never be satisfied, never getting anything back. Feeding himself to masses he’ll never know.

Is that fun for him? Because it sounds like Hell to me.

Colt has to leave close five to make it to practice on time, but not before he makes me upload the photo of us to the bakery’s social media sites, tagging him so he can share it on his. He wants a copy of it, he tells me. He wants a picture of me being sweet so he can remember it the next time I’m sour. He says it like he knows there’ll be a next time, but he doesn’t mind. I think he’s looking forward to it.

He kisses me when he goes. It’s softer than the other night. Slow and patient. Lingering. It’s tiramisu and I’m lightheaded from the taste of it.

LILLY

Palmetto Warehouse

Los Angeles, CA

“This is what I love about L.A.,” Rona tells me thoughtfully. “Looking at it from here, this is either a very swanky apartment building or it’s a murder haven, and you won’t know which until you get inside.”

“It’s like a box of chocolates.”

“It is
not
like a box of chocolates and I’ll thank you to never affect a Forest Gump accent again.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

I cock my head at the three story industrial monster staring darkly back from across the street. “Do we take a chance and go in or do we say, ‘not tonight, axe murderers’, and hit up El Pollo?”

“You’re high if you think I’m not going inside that party.”

“I’m not high, but are you holding? It might take the edge off.”

“When am I ever holding?” she asks in amazement.

I shrug. “It never hurts to ask.”

“Come on,” she laces her arm through mine to pull me across the street. “Maybe some nice man inside will have illicit drugs he’ll be happy to share with you. The odds are in your favor.”

“I wasn’t serious.”

“Well, I was about going inside so quit dragging your feet.”

I’m not dragging my feet. I’m not reluctant to go inside either. I’m excited to see Colt. And nervous. Really nervous, because even though I grew up in L.A. and I’ve been to a handful of parties sporting the occasional famous face, it’s different this time. It’s a guy I really like and he
is
the famous face. A thousand scenarios have been going through my mind all day. The most popular reel I’m running is Scenario #1, or what I like to call the Bitch Beauties. It’s an image born of countless Mean Girl movies I watched all through high school and it plays out like this; there’s a gaggle of gorgeous women at this party, all dressed perfectly in cute little dresses and matching purses while I stand off to the side looking frumpy in my jeans, sequined tank, and slouchy cardigan. I’m comfortable, cute even, but somehow that makes it worse than looking like shit. Reaching and falling short of the mark is more humiliating than never trying, and these girls know it. They get wind that Colt invited me and I’m immediately ripped to shreds for not being pretty enough for him.

Scenario #2 is that he ignores me the entire time, I feel weird being there, and I go home to drink vodka from the bottle until infomercials come on. Then I promptly pass out.

Scenario #3 is where—

Colt smiles from ear to ear when he opens the door and finds us there. Loud music and laughter pours from the massive apartment behind him. The place is bigger than I expected but there are fewer people. Only twenty bodies or so milling around. For a notorious party boy like Colt, it looks pretty tame.

He immediately puts his arms around me to pull me into a gentle hug that takes my breath away.

“You’re here,” he says quietly into my hair, his chin on the top of my head in an all-encompassing, affectionate way that makes my heart stutter in my chest.

I can only laugh in reply, wrapping my arms around his waist to return the hug.

He releases me slowly, reluctantly, before spotting Rona. He laughs out loud happily when he sees her. “Rona, what’s up girl? Get in here. Give me love.”

Rona doesn’t hesitate to step into his embrace. She hugs him back tightly as he whispers something in her ear. Whatever he says makes her throw her head back with laughter.

“I mean it,” he promises her when he lets her go. “Dude is into it. You’ll love it.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’ll thank you me later.”

“I hope so.”

Colt turns to the room, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Yo! Hibbert! Cut that shit!”

The music comes to an abrupt halt. All eyes turn attentively to Colt.

He comes to stand behind Rona and I. His hands land on my shoulders, squeezing lightly. “Everybody, this is Lilly. Say ‘Hi, Lilly’.”

“Hi, Lilly!” the room shouts as a whole. Glasses are raised in my direction.

I blush furiously. “Hey.”

“Lilly is off limits!”

“Boo!” a guy shouts in the back.

Colt points at him menacingly. “I’ll break your face, Lowry! I fuckin’ mean it!”

The guy laughs, his barrel chest shaking happily. He’s probably the same age as Colt but a little bigger. A little more intimidating, though Colt doesn’t seem to see it.

He steps behind Rona, gripping her shoulders the same way he did mine. “This is Rona.”

“Hi, Rona!” the room cheers obediently.

Rona does not blush. She drinks in the attention, throwing her arm proudly in the air. “What’s up, everybody?!”

“Rona is
not
off limits,” Colt tells them. “In fact, the first guy who gets off his ass and gets Rona a drink gets the first dance with her, and boys, she likes to dance dirty. Swayze dirty.”

Four men make a run for the kitchen. I’m guessing that’s where the booze is. There’s shouting, banging, and a very troubling crash before two of them come racing back out with beers in their hands. Rona laughs when they come to a screeching halt in front of her. It’s a clear tie.

She looks at the bottles they’ve brought, checking the labels. Rolling Rock and an IPA from a brewery I don’t recognize. Rona hates IPAs, but she loves brown eyes and the guy who brought her the mystery beer is sporting a big ole pair of ‘em. I’m not surprised when she theatrically plucks the bottle from his hands.

A round of applause goes up through the room.

And just like that, I’ve lost my wingman.

She follows the guy to the other side of the room, smiling and listening intently as he shows her a battle scar on his arm from his race to win her attention. She fits right in immediately, seamlessly, the way she always does in every situation. She’s a lot like Colt in that way. People love her instinctively. There’s something uninhibited and exciting about them both that draws people in and makes them want to be part of the party.

I’m too mellow for that. I’m the person you come to when you want peace and quiet and a gentle hand. The one who’s there for you when you’re nursing a hangover, compliments of the party.

“I might have sold your friend for a beer,” Colt apologizes from behind me. “Sorry about that.”

“She’s gotten herself out of worse. She’s very resourceful.”

“Can she actually dance? I was talking out my ass there.”

“She can. Really well. Your Swayze reference wasn’t a lie.”

“What about you?”

“I carried a watermelon.”

He frowns. “What?”

“It’s a line from the movie. Baby, she carries a… you know what, never mind. No. I can’t dance. Or I can, but I don’t. For the good of the nation.”

Colt chuckles, raising his hand to someone across the room. He spins it in the air and the music kicks back on, the bass rumbling in my chest. “That’s very patriotic of you. Do you drink for your country?”

“I’d drink for the enemy if they had the right brew.”

“Let’s see if we’ve got what you need, traitor.”

He takes my hand to pull me behind him through the crowd. It parts for him. Hand to God. The sea breaks for the man as we cross the huge open loft to the kitchen area tucked in the far left corner. All of the appliances are stainless. All of the cupboards a beautiful honey colored wood. There’s a massive island in the middle with a range and a second sink. A big guy with a bushy beard and a shaved head is hunched in the corner with a broom in one hand and a pan in the other. He’s sweeping broken bottle shards up off the polished cement floor.

“Did we suffer a casualty, Shane?” Colt asks him.

Shane scowls at him. “You sent those dumb fucks racing in here and banging around. Kyle knocked my beer out of my hand.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he won.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Sorry, man.”

Shane shakes his head over the mess, grumbling, “My one night away from my wife and kids and I’m still cleaning up after toddlers.”

“Lefao,” Colt tells me covertly. “He’s the center. Married. Three kids. We’re his only excitement. He sounds mad but he loves it. Beats changing diapers.”

“Not by much!” Shane shouts.

Colt smiles as he grabs me a beer out of a bucket on the island. It’s another IPA, this one from a different brewery I’ve never heard of.

I take it, reading the label. The place is in Oregon. “Are you a big beer fan?”

He twists the top off for me with a shrug. “I don’t know. It all tastes pretty much the same to me. Why?”

“You have a lot of different kinds here.”

“I get ‘em for free.” He launches the cap toward the far sink. It drops in dead center. “People send me cases. They want me to try them and think about advertising for them.”

“Wow. Have you chosen one?”

“I won’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to advertise alcohol.”

His tone is gentle but final. I don’t ask any more questions about it.

“The paparazzi are outside,” a woman laments behind us. “Please tell me you didn’t call them, Colt.”

Colt and I turn to find a couple standing behind us. They’re that ethereal brand of people that’s only manufactured in L.A. Even if they weren’t born here, pretty people find their way to the city and it assimilates them, making them one of its own, proudly slapping its brand on them. L.A. pulls in pretties like the eye of a tornado gathers double wides.

The guy is slightly taller than Colt. He has glossy black hair and gorgeous brown skin. Definitely from the islands. I recognize his face from earlier this year when I watched the Draft with my dad. Trey something. A quarterback. His draft position was an upset. It’s the only reason I remember him. Well, that and his eyes. They’re so dark they almost look black and I think Rona would shit herself sideways if she looked into them.

At his side is a blond. She’s everything I imagined in Scenario #1 – Bitch Beauties. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect skin, perfect dress, perfect purse. Heels you could win a knife fight with.

A smile you could be best friends with.

“You guys finally made it,” Colt greets them.

He and Trey do that bro thing where they clasp hands and hug briefly, pounding each other on the back. When Colt turns to the women to kiss her on both cheeks I feel a small, sick sense of jealousy.

“Kurtis let us in,” she tells him.

Colt’s eyes go big in amazement. “Matthews is here?”

“The anti-social guy from the parking lot?” I ask.

“What parking lot?” the girl asks.

“We saw him late the other night at the stadium.”

She casts Colt an impatient look. “Jesus, man, I thought you liked her. Take her somewhere nice. Not the fucking stadium. It smells like beer, brats, and sweaty man ass.”

“It was fun,” I tell her, stepping up to Colt’s defense. “It was really great, actually.”

I’m surprised when she grins instead of arguing with me. “He can make just about anything fun. It’s one of his many disturbing talents.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Sloane, by the way.”

Her handshake is hard. Assertive, without being aggressive.

“Right, sorry,” Colt apologizes. He points to each of us in turn. “The Hotness, the agent. Trey, the quarterback. Lilly, the beautiful baker.”

Trey smiles at me politely before asking Colt, “Did you not know Kurtis was here?”

“No fucking clue! I’ve been at the door almost all night and I never saw him come in. Where is he?”

“He went over by the windows to chat up a brunette.”

“Raven,” Sloane corrects.

“What’s Raven?”

“And is it
so
Raven or just kind of Raven?” Colt adds.

“Her hair,” Sloane answers, ignoring Colt. “It’s not brunette. It’s raven. It’s black.”

“Why does that matter?” Trey asks.

She shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because I love to drive you crazy.”

He grins affectionately. “You’re a very talented woman.”

“I gotta see this,” Colt mutters as he pushes past Trey.

Trey follows quickly on his heels.

Sloane reaches around me to blindly grab a bottle from the bucket. She pops the top and tosses it into the sink the way Colt did. Nothing but net.

“Come on,” she tells me with a nod toward the living area. “Let’s grab a seat on the couch. The later the night gets the more the kitchen becomes a hazard zone and if one of these guys spills beer on my shoes, he’s getting blood on his shirt.”

I follow her willingly, happy to have an ally again after losing mine at the door. “Are there really paparazzi outside?”

“Oh, only a few. They probably followed one of the boys here from a club looking for a story. They’ll leave soon. This is a small party and I don’t think Colt’s invited any big names that aren’t on the team.”