He’d been home and recuperating from radical knee surgery with the best prognosis he could hope for after such a nasty break, to walk normally, much less play the occasional pickup game. His depression had been deep, wide, and terrifying. He’d woken every day at his parents’ house, unwilling even to get out of bed, not that he could without help for the first few weeks.
Antony had tossed a laptop computer at him one day when he’d been sulking, unshaven, and eating an entire bag of potato chips, something he’d not done since the age of ten when his fate—bound for basketball fame and fortune—had been determined.
“Here, find a job, find a date, find somethin’,” his brother said before yanking the empty chip bag away and smacking Kieran’s head hard enough to make his ears ring.
“Ow. Leave me alone, asshole. I’m grievously fuckin’ injured,” Kieran said, not caring about the swear-free zone he inhabited.
“That’s three dollars young man,” his mother called out from the kitchen.
“You live with this, jerk, and see how you feel about finding ‘a date.’” He’d hooked his fingers around the words, heart in his throat at how badly he’d wanted to call Cara right then.
But by the next weekend he was limping and caning his way toward the door to some faux-fancy Italian restaurant in Lexington, rubbing his freshly shaved face and trying not to sweat through his dress shirt. The woman from the internet site sat at the bar, twirling an olive-laden swizzle stick in her martini glass, long, slim, bare legs crossed, feet encased in sky-high, patent leather heels. He’d exhaled, beyond relieved that he’d not been cat-fished by some troll, or a dude.
Then he’d hesitated, something in him telling him to turn around and leave, fast. But at that moment, she’d flashed him the whitest, most-perfect smile he’d ever seen and he’d been hooked. He still didn’t know how. They’d gone out for three weeks before she let him kiss her. It’d been another three weeks before he got anywhere near her tits. It had been a solid four months before he rounded home plate, but that encounter had been, in a word, epic.
Melinda liked to talk dirty, and wear heels and a garter belt while he fucked her. Loved doing it with all the lights on and in semi-public places. She gave head like a pro at first, before he’d given her an engagement ring.
Her bitchiness had come across as extreme decisiveness, sort of hot in a way, he’d admit, since he tended toward the spontaneous and unplanned—wishy washy as he now understood it thanks to Melinda’s re-categorization of his personality. Her tight grip on her emotions and her surroundings, the OCD way she ordered her life did grate on him at times, but he figured she tolerated his innate sloppiness and willingness to wake on a Sunday without a plan in place for the rest of the day. When he realized he sat across from her at some overpriced restaurant near her office after going out with her for eight months, ready to present her with a ring he could barely afford, it had shocked him without seeming to even faze her.
“Well, of course I’ll marry you, but you’ve got to find a better job,” she’d drawled as she sipped her champagne.
“A new job?” He’d gotten the teaching gig at his old high school and couldn’t imagine any job he’d want or like better. She made six figures for Christ’s sake, at least he thought she did.
Elated, drunk with lust and achievement, he’d tried to get his long legs adjusted under the small table jammed between all the others and covered with small plates of tapas which, best he could tell, were appetizers only twice the price and half the helpings.
“I’ll do anything you want, Melinda. You saved me, honest to God you did.”
She’d fluttered her inky-black lashes and gazed at him with an expression that convinced him he’d made the drastic move for the right reasons. The following year had been a combination of frustration, anger, and high school-level blue balls. The double drama Antony and Aiden had foisted on the Love family during that time hadn’t helped but it had distracted him. He’d taught his classes, helped out with the basketball team pro bono without telling Melinda, and had been happier than he’d ever been as a pro athlete.
The fact that she maintained her uber-bitch persona around his family killed him. But he was hooked.
Still.
Mostly.
His phone buzzed on the seat next to him. He held it against the steering wheel as he passed another geriatric on the road. A message from Melinda flashed on his screen:
Running late. Won’t be home until tomorrow. See you then. Sorry. Kisses.
Cursing, he threw the thing on the seat then checked the rearview mirror for cops before flooring the pedal, grinning when the needle caressed ninety miles an hour.