The Hot Shot(29)

I can barely look at her anymore. It's wrong of me, I know. But feelings rarely listen to reason. "Goodbye, Britt."

I close the door and lean against it, wanting Chess back here more than  my next breath. But she'll probably ask questions. And I don't know if I  have it in me to give her the answers.



* * *



Chess



* * *



One of my favorite things about the French Quarter is that you can  always find a bar no matter what time it is. And not some dank, gloomy  dive-although there are plenty of those- but ones with high, pressed tin  ceilings, walls of windows, and cute mixologists like my new friend  Nate here who kindly slides a perfect Sazerac in front of me.

I take a cool sip and listen to Ella Fitzgerald muss about being  bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It's almost enough to soothe the  weary soul.

"That's an awfully big sigh," Nate observes, as he wipes his spotless mahogany bar.

I'm no longer a fan of Nate.

"I wasn't aware I sighed," I say, taking another sip of my drink. Good man, Nate, despite being nosy.

"Practically blew back my hair," he jokes.

I eye Nate's shaved head, and he laughs.

"I need a short term place to live." Sadness swamps my chest. I don't  want to find a new place. Which just proves I really need to find one.

"You just moved here?" Nate asks.

"No. My place burned down."

"Man that sucks."

I think of Finn running into the ER to find me, the way he brought me  home and made me feel like it was my home too, for as long as I needed  it. And then I think of Finn up there right now with Britt, and the way  he looked at her. They have a history, and it clearly isn't a simple  one.

My cocktail chokes me going down, a sticky sweet burn on my tongue. "Yeah."

Nate moves closer until he's standing opposite of me. "I can keep an ear out for you. If you want to give me your number."
                       
       
           


///
       
I stare up at Nate with his shaved head, gauge in his ears, cute suspenders over his shoulders. There's interest in his eyes.

"You want my number?"

The interest turns to heat. "I'm great at consoling."

I bet he is.

Finn is better.

Finn is in his apartment with a supermodel.

I hand Nate my phone, and he punches in his number.

Not even a glimmer of anticipation in my belly.

"So," he says, happier now. "You want another drink, pretty little lady?"

Pretty little lady? I'm regretting my decision more and more. "Another drink and I'll be buzzed. Better give me a menu."

"Let's get you fed, then." Nate grins. I know he thinks I'm lingering  because of him, but I can't return to Finn's any time soon. Short of  walking around, I have nowhere else to go, which utterly sucks.

I eat my dinner and chat with Nate, and a few patrons who sit down at  the bar, until my butt is numb and I'm fairly certain I'm leading Nate  to a very wrong conclusion.

When he's occupied, I leave some money on the bar and slip out into the  fading light. And then I do walk around, until it's dark and I can't  stall anymore.

At Finn's place, I turn the lock to his front door as quietly as I can.

Please don't let me hear them. Please let them be in his bedroom. God,  the horror of actually seeing them makes me pause, my heart thudding in  my chest like cannon fire.

Like a thief, I creep in. The living room is dark, and I heave a sigh of relief as I ease my way toward my bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Finn asks from behind me.

With a stifled yelp, I pivot and press a hand to my heart. "Jesus, sneaky much?"

Finn raises a brow and gives me a pointed look.

"I was trying not to disturb you." It's only now that I notice the TV is  on, pressed to pause on one of his games. Finn is in baggy sweats and  an old Nike tee with the words "Just Do It" splashed across his broad  chest.

"I'm disturbed that you're tiptoeing around like some cartoon villain,"  he says with an eye roll and then heads for the couch, a sports drink  clutched in one hand.

Setting my purse down on the side table, I follow him. "I wasn't tiptoeing. I was being quiet."

Finn snorts and plops on the couch before peering up at me as if I'm full of it. Which I am. "You've been gone a while."

It sounds like an accusation.

"You had company." Shit, that sounds like one too.

Finn turns back to the screen. "Not anymore."

There's a tone in his voice that gives me pause. Sorrow or bitterness. It's hard to tell.

I make my way over to the couch and hover by the arm, not sure if I  should sit down or leave him alone and go to my room. Finn doesn't  bother to look up, but takes a long drink from the bottle in his hand.  The faint lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes are deeper  now, tight and unhappy.

"You eat?" he asks, setting his sports drink on the table. "I had to put  the cheese away. It was getting sweaty. But I can pull it back out."

I clear my throat. "No, I'm good. I ate at a bar."

Quietly, he nods and then reaches for his game controller. I turn to go when his voice stops me.

"Stay." He glances up, and I nearly rock back on my feet. Because he looks haunted. Angry. Lost.

I find myself sitting beside him, close enough to feel the warmth  radiating from his body, but not close enough to risk leaning on him.  "You all right?"

His expression shutters. "Just tired."

The finality in his tone makes it clear he's not going to answer any  more questions. I'm almost relieved. The last thing I want to do is  console him on his love life. Even so, I don't like that he's hurting.

He glances my way but doesn't meet my eyes. "I can put on something else if you want."

"No." I kick off my shoes and set my phone on the coffee table before  curling up more comfortably on the couch. "Let me see you kick some ass  with your big guns of fury."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Are you throwing shade, Chester?"

"Me?" I blink innocently. "I would never."

Finn hums as if dubious, but his expression is lighter as he starts up  his game. Content to sit next to him and watch him play, I zone out, my  body growing heavy and warm. Two hours I've been gone, and I've missed  him like it's been weeks. I'm so screwed.

He finishes the game and turns on regular TV, flipping through the channels.

"Oh, wait," I cry out. "Stop here."

"‘Friends'? Really?"                       
       
           


///
       

"Don't give me that look. It's funny!"

"It's like …  what? Twenty something years old."

"You're a twenty something," I point out with some asperity. "Should I not watch you on TV?"

His brows raise at that. "Do you watch me on TV?"

He sounds both hopeful and skeptical.

"James is a huge fan. I've been watching you play since the beginning."

For a long moment, he says nothing, his gaze darting over my face as if  he's trying to figure out if I'm being truthful. But then a slow,  pleased light fills his eyes. "It's unnerving how much I love knowing  that."

It's all I can do not to squirm. "I should clarify that it was mostly  out of the corner of my eye, and you were not much more than a padded up  dude hiding under a big helmet."

Finn shakes his head and tisks. "You're not going to ruin this for me,  Chess. You've seen me play. End of story." He sprawls out, his long legs  slanting over the coffee table, like some lord of the manner.

"Are you going to let me watch my show or keep crowing all night?"

"I'm good," he says a touch too happily.

"I'll make a convert out of you, just wait."

"I've already seen it. Dex loves this show." He grabs his drink. "You  remember him from the shoot? The big guy with the beard and tats-"

"And piercings," I cut in. "Yeah, I remember all right."

A choked, gurgle gets caught in Finn's throat as he jerks his head up. "Jesus, Chess."

"What? The man has his dick pierced. It's kind of impossible to ignore. Or didn't you know?"

His brows meet over a dark scowl. "It's not the kind of thing I want to notice."

God, it's hard not to grin; he sounds so put out and aggrieved. But the  devil in me can't resist poking the bear. "I'd think a piercing like  that would be the talk of the locker room."

As predicted, he reacts with an annoyed scoff, but then turns back  toward the TV. When he speaks, his tone is almost sullen. "Dex is your  type."

Oh, we're going to talk about type now? After I've come face to face with Ms. Golden Goddess Pouty Lips?

"I suppose he is," I agree. Because Finn is right. Dex is one hundred  percent my usual type. We'd even discussed our mutual love of art and  painting when I'd taken his picture. And yet I hadn't felt anything past  a gentle fondness and the need to put the big guy at ease. "Are you  trying to set me up with him?"