Rush (Gods #2)(14)

Then, she asked me about Kyle. She said that Ares had told her. I mean,  I'd asked him not to tell my dad, which he hasn't, but I hadn't thought  about other people. I guess Missy knowing isn't a problem, and she told  me that he'd only told her because she was staying with him at the  moment, and she'd just gotten home from the hospital early in the  morning when he came in from being at mine.

After that, I focused the conversation toward her. She talked about her  nieces, Gigi and Thea. She practically glowed about them, clearly a  besotted aunt. She showed me photos of them, too. I swear, I had baby  fever by the end of that lunch.

Missy never mentioned the painting that I gave Ares for Gigi though, so  there's something he did keep to himself. And I'm grateful for that. I  don't want to talk about my art with anyone right now-or the lack of it.

Missy also told me that she was a psych major at Dartmouth. She's home  for the summer, staying with Ares, like she always does. She told me  that her twin brother, Lo, is currently in Europe, traveling with his  buddies. He's at Penn State, earning a law degree.

She told me tons of stuff.

One thing I noticed she never mentioned was her parents. And I never asked.

I don't want her asking about my mom, so I'm not going to ask her questions about her parents.

But I do know that Ares pays for hers and Lo's college tuition, as my  dad once told me that. So, either their parents aren't financially able  to help toward their education or they're not around.

Something tells me it might be the latter.

Missy and I also finally went to the cinema together on Tuesday evening.  Just me and her, no Ares this time. We went to see The Greatest Showman  again. Well, again for me, first time for Missy. But I was more than  happy to watch it for a second time.

I've had quite a busy week, by my standards, and it's been really good.

I'm on my way to the players' meeting room right now to set up for the weekly team meeting.

The meeting room is on the other side of the gym.

I'm just walking by there when I hear my name-well, a variation of it-being said, and I stop near the partially open door.

"So, Kincaid … you and Coach Petrelli's daughter."

I don't recognize the voice, but it's one of the players on the team. They're the only ones who use the gym.

"Me and Ari, what?" That voice I do know. It's the one I've grown to like listening to in his car every morning and evening.

"Oh, Ari," the voice singsongs. "So, you're on a first-name basis with her. I guess you should be when you're screwing her."

What?

"I'm not screwing her, dick face. And I don't refer to her as Coach Petrelli's daughter because she has a fucking name-Ari."

It was only a week ago that he referred to me as Jailbird. He still does  from time to time, but I now take it as something that changed from a  barb to cheeky.

"Hey, man, I wouldn't blame you if you were. She's hot as hell."

"I'm sure your wife would love to hear you say that."

"Hey, I might be married, but I'm not fucking blind. And Arianna  Petrelli is rocking some serious curves." A pause then. "You don't think  she's hot?"

"She's okay, I guess. If you like that kind of thing."

"If you like that kind of thing."                       
       
           



       

Wow. Thanks, quarterback.

"Um … pretty face, great ass. Sure, her rack's not huge, but there's a definite handful there."

"You have issues. Like, seriously, you should talk to a doctor."

A chuckle. "Look, all I heard is that she's been seen in your car a lot this past week, and if I'm hearing, so is Coach."

"So? All I'm doing is giving her a ride home."

"Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?"

It's Ares's turn to laugh. "Don't be a dick, Thompson." Ah, so it's the  fullback he's in there with. "Ari doesn't have her license anymore, and  she was taking the bus. I live in the city, not far from her, so I  offered to drive her."

There's a pause. Then, "So, you're really not hittin' it?"

"Do I look stupid to you?"

And the compliments just keep coming.

"Is that a trick question?"

"Fuck you." Ares chuckles. "And, no, I'm not hittin' it."

"Then, you are as stupid as you look, quarterback. 'Cause, if I were single, I'd be tapping that in a heartbeat."

"Nah. She's Coach's daughter. That's a recipe for disaster in itself.  And all the shit that went down with her earlier this year … she has  baggage a mile wide. And baggage doesn't interest me."





Pearl Jam's "Black" is playing in Ares's truck. And it's apt because it's the color of my mood right now.

"Baggage doesn't interest me."

The words have been on repeat in my head all day, and I've been getting angrier and angrier.

I don't know why it bothers me so much. It's not like I'm interested in him in that way.

Sure you're not, Ari. You keep telling yourself that.

Fine. I do like him. A little bit. But I know he has no interest in me  in that way, so I'm not paying attention to my feelings. Instead, I'm  tamping them down.

And, yes, it stung when I heard he wasn't interested in me. More so because I had baggage.

But, mostly, I'm pissed because I don't like being the topic of conversation for him and his buddy while they're doing reps.

It's disrespectful.

Yeah, but it's not like he respects you. Remember how he used to talk to you? The things he said?

I know, but I thought things had changed after that night with Kyle. I  thought he saw the real me now. Not just the screwed-up girl who's  clinging on by her fingernails to stay sober.

But, clearly, nothing has changed. He still sees me that way.

I didn't want to ride home with him tonight. But I also didn't want him to know I'd overheard.

So, here I am, sitting in his truck.

Angry and hurt and a million other things. Fingers curled into my palms in quiet contemplation.

"You okay over there, Jailbird?" he asks, finger tapping on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song.

"Mmhmm."

"Sounds like it."

"I'm fine." I grit my jaw and stare out the passenger window.

I can feel his eyes on me again, but I ignore him.

"I meant to tell you this morning … Gigi loved the painting. I gave it to her last night."

"I'm glad." I'm speaking as few words as possible because, if I say more, my anger will come spilling out.

"I made the donation to AFSP."

"Good."

He swings the car to the right and firmly hits the brakes, stopping by  the sidewalk, and we're still a five-minute drive from my apartment.

"Okay, what gives?" he says in a frustrated tone.

"Nothing."

"Nothing. Sure." He nods, disbelieving. "So, nothing is the reason  you've barely said a word for the last half an hour, and you won't look  at me now."

I turn my eyes to him. "I didn't know it was a prerequisite to talk."

He looks annoyed, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes  that I can't decipher. "It's not, but usually, I can't get you to stop  talking."

Nice.

Maybe, if he'd kept his mouth shut, then I wouldn't be feeling like I do right now.

Shitty.

And like I really want to drink.

No, I don't. I'm not going to let his carelessness with words lead me down the path of spiraling thoughts.

"Are you going to tell me what's eating you anytime soon?"

"Why?"

"Why?" he echoes, brow rising.

"Yeah, why? Why do you even care if something is bothering me?"

He looks surprised. Like he's not actually sure of the answer himself. "I just … do."                       
       
           



       

I laugh humorlessly. "Good answer."

"Fucking hell, Jailbird." He tosses his hands up, irritated. "Because we're friends; that's why."

"I thought I had too much baggage to be your friend."

He frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"I heard you … in the gym, talking to Thompson about me."

"So?" His face doesn't change. Not a trace of guilt there.

Then, what did I expect? This is him I'm talking about. I don't think the guy has it in him to feel guilty.

"So?" I laugh again, and it still doesn't have a trace of humor in it. "I don't like being fodder for you and your buddy."

"You weren't fodder. Thompson was being a dick, and I was just trying to shut him up."

"You did a stand-up job of that."

"For fuck's sake," he snaps. "It's just locker-room talk. That's what  guys do. I'm not going to stand there and tell him things that will give  him ammo to wind me up about later."

"Oh, well, that's okay then."

"Stop being so fucking sensitive!"

"Fuck you, Kincaid. You ever think that maybe this isn't me being  sensitive? And that it's you being an insensitive prick?" I yell back.