Hot Damn(73)

I can tell when Mom starts to get tired; her attention starts to wander, her eyelids drifting down from time to time as we talk. Chloe glances my way and gives a barely perceptible nod. She’s noticed, too, then. I smile and squeeze her hand.

“Chloe and I need to get going,” I say gently. I don’t want to upset Mom, but we need to leave so she can rest. “I’m actually supposed to be in a physical therapy appointment right now.”

“Oh, goodness,” says Mom. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

I stand and bend over her to kiss her temple. “It’s okay, Momma. It’s always worth it to see you.”

Chloe gives me a gentle smile. I return it. I don’t think there’s any way I can express to her how grateful I am for this visit, but I’ll do my damnedest.

We make quiet goodbyes and leave the room. Chloe closes the door carefully behind her, barely making a sound. As she looks up, I grab her hand again and pull her to me, kissing her, deep and warm and long. After a few long seconds, I draw back and press my forehead to hers while I stroke her hair back from her forehead.

“Thank you.”

She reaches up to fiddle with the plackets of my shirt. “Of course. She’s your mom. I understand.” Then she grins. “Plus it’s cute hearing your accent change.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help laughing. “Cute, huh?”

“Yeah, in that way that gets me hot.”

“That’s a relief. I don’t know what I’d do if a Southern accent turned you off.” I draw her close again, embracing her. “Seriously, Chloe. Thank you. I hope maybe someday you can meet the rest of my family.”

I realize it’s a big thing to throw out there—meeting the family means serious business. But that’s the way I’m feeling about her right now. Serious. Very serious. If she doesn’t feel the same way, she can tell me right now, and at least I’ll know.

But she just looks up into my eyes and smiles, the expression so warm it feels like a caress. “I’d like that, Austin. I’d like that a lot.”





Chapter 11





Chloe





He moves behind me, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on my head. I lift my hands to his arms and lean back, enjoying his closeness. It’s a quiet little bubble between us.

Until I hear a voice behind us, and the sound of a camera.

“Dude, it’s Austin Sherwood!”

At least it’s not paparazzi this time. They’re just fans, a good number of them kids, staring at him wide-eyed. Their parents seem hesitant to approach, but Austin says hi and starts shaking hands with the kids. A few of them hand over their game programs for autographs, which he supplies with a smile. He’s good with the kids, I notice—I can’t help noticing that. He’s good with his own kid.

He’s so gracious with them, as I noticed the last time we ran into fans, especially with the kids. It’s not long before I realize I’ve got a goofy look on my face just watching it play out. He’s a good guy. And he makes me happy. I honestly never thought I’d feel this way—this at home, this protected. Especially not with a football player.

Once we get clear of Austin’s fans, he leads me to an elevator that takes us to one of the top boxes. Even with the elevator, it’s been quite a bit of walking, and I notice Austin seems a little stiffer than he has been.

“You okay?” I ask him as we get off the elevator.

“Fine.” He winces a little, though.

“You’re still hurting,” I state.

He shrugs, not arguing, just trying to brush off my observation.

“It’s not bad.”

I don’t make an additional comment. He knows what he feels like, and he knows what’s at stake. If he’s okay with walking, I’m not going to stop him. In fact, walking might be the best thing he can do for himself right now. We head for our seats.

I’m not going to worry about it. I’m just going to enjoy the game and enjoy being with him. Being with him, in fact, has become one of my favorite things to do.

The National Anthem is belted out beautifully by a Nashville up-and-comer. When we sit back down, Austin drops his arm over my shoulders, pulling me up against him. Our seats are in a semi-private box—not glassed off like the VIP box we were in last night. I’m glad. Seeing the glass again probably would have sent me into a tailspin of lust I would have been hard put to keep under control.

“How’s Emma?”

“She’s with the sitter at home. Damn, I can’t wait to bring her to her first game.”

Austin buys me popcorn from a passing vendor. We laugh and clap and cheer when Austin’s team gets a first down, then a touchdown. He high fives me, and I lean forward to kiss him.

But he’s not looking at me. For some reason, he’s staring straight ahead, out onto the field. His eyes have gone wide. His hand tightens on the bag of popcorn, so tight some of the popcorn spills over the top and onto the concrete below us.

I follow his gaze. And I, too, freeze. My entire body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. And numb.

The TV screen at the opposite end of the field is filled with an all-too-familiar image.

It’s me. Or more precisely, my tits. Naked, and with Austin’s number drawn across them in eyeblack.

My mouth falls open. I can’t move; I can’t breath. Austin grabs my arm.

“Chloe. Chloe. Don’t. I don’t know what—”

I spin on him. “You fucking bastard. How in the hell could you do this to me?”

“Chloe, I didn’t—”

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

“No way!”

My face burns as his betrayal sinks into my chest. “You brought me here so you could humiliate me in front of fifty thousand people.” It’s beyond my ability to comprehend.

“Chloe—”

“Just shut up.” I shove up out of my seat, hitting his arm and sending the popcorn spilling everywhere. “Shut the fuck up!”

I run. My feet stumble on the millions of steps from our box down to the lower levels of the stadium, and I nearly go head over heels down three or four concrete flights. Better if I had, I thought. I’d bash my brains out and then I wouldn’t have to face this anymore.

“Chloe!”

Maybe he’ll trip on the steps. It would serve him right, to tear the shit out of his knee right when we were making progress on fixing it. I’m beyond angry. Beyond embarrassed. Humiliated doesn’t even cut it. I don’t think there’s a word in the English language for how I feel right now.

A hand closes on my arm and pulls me around. I find myself facing Austin. His face is sincere and open, red spots high on his cheeks indicating either embarrassment or exertion. I’m figuring it’s the latter. Why should he be embarrassed? It wasn’t his tits that got blown up to eighty times life size and broadcast to a football stadium full of leering men. And their girlfriends, and wives. And kids.

I jerk away from him so hard I nearly lose my balance. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

We’re drawing attention, but nobody seems inclined to interfere.

“Chloe, I didn’t—”

“The hell you didn’t. Who the hell else could have? Nobody had that picture but you!”

“I don’t know, but I swear to God—”

“You can swear to whatever you like.” I take a step back. I’m trying not to cry, but it’s mostly a hopeless cause. The edges of my eyes feel like they’re on fire. “How the fuck could you do this to me, Austin?”

“Doc—”

“Don’t fucking call me Doc!” Of all the things he could say, this turns out to be the one that lights the fuse on the thermonuclear device lurking inside my chest. “You did this on purpose! All you wanted to do was fuck me and get me to trust you so you could humiliate me! All that shit about protecting me and my job—it was all a pile of steaming bullshit, wasn’t it?”

“No. Chloe, listen to me—”

“I’m not listening to you ever again. I don’t even know you, Austin. You introduced me to your mother!”

I wheel away from him. Every thought in my head has become incoherent rage mixed with the purest, most painful humiliated embarrassment I’ve ever experienced in my life. It’s so intense I’m not sure I can physically survive it. It will hollow me out, make me bleed myself dry.

“Why would I do that?” he shouts back. “Why in the world would I do something like that?”

I don’t answer. I have no answer for him—I have nothing for him anymore. All I want to do is get away.

I run.



I’m calmer when I get home, but it’s not a good calm. It’s more like everything has gone numb. The little voice in my head says I should stay away from the Internet, but the first thing I do is turn on my computer.

My inbox is exploding with emails. Some of the subject lines make the numbness go away, replacing it with sheer horror, embarrassment, humiliation. I scroll down, reading one horrible sentence after another.

Nice tits, Chloe.

Congratulations! You finally made it onto national TV!

Wow, you really took that wardrobe malfunction thing seriously!

Worse—as if it could get any worse—I realize I don’t even know most of the people who are emailing me. The email addresses and names aren’t even remotely familiar. Where are these people coming from? How did they get my email? How have this many people seen that picture? Was it on national TV? I can’t be getting this many emails just from people who were at the game.