Page 93 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 25
Brock
I CAN’T LOOK BACK.Much as I want to, it would hurt too much.
I climb into the SUV and start the car before pulling away from the one true home I’ve known. It was mine for a little while. Should have known it wouldn’t last. Nothing ever has.
With Charleston a half day’s ride away, I could make it in one go. But after six hours of driving, exhaustion sets in. I need to bunk down for the night before I fall asleep at the wheel. The no-frills motel in Lexington has a surprisingly comfortable bed. As a football player, I’m used to sleeping in strange rooms. It should be easy enough to nod off. Except I don’t.
Instead, I spend the night fighting against the urge to go back to Chicago and begging Ellie to move to the South with me. When dawn comes, I climb bleary-eyed into the SUV and point the car toward Charleston. I do have some pride after all.
When I find myself drifting off, I know I need coffee, so I stop at a diner to grab some grub and caffeine. All fueled up, I get on the road again. The heat’s brutal. The further south I drive, the hotter it becomes. So I crank up the AC sky high. As the miles pile up, my mind wanders to the might have beens. What if Ellie was riding shotgun with me? What if Kaylee and Butch were in the back and we were singing ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’? Fuck it. I can’t do that. I’ve never played make-believe. Crappy as my life is, I have to deal with it.
I fire up the radio to silence my mind. Some loser comes on, wailing in his beer about the gal who got away. Can’t have that. I tune to another station. Same thing, except this time the schmuck lost not only his woman, but his truck and his dog. What the fuck is it with country songs? Don’t they have anything else to sing about? Giving up, I shut off the damn radio and turn to say something to Butch, only to realize he’s not there.
Hours later, I pull into my new driveway, drained of emotion, exhausted to boot. With no furniture and no food in the house, it’s a lousy homecoming. But as it turns out, I’m wrong. At least about the food. A fruit basket sits on the front porch. As I reach for it, my phone rings. My realtor’s number pops up.
“Mr. Parker?”
“Yeah.” I grumble out.
“You home yet, Sugar?” That’s not just for me. She calls everybody Sugar.
I could correct her. Tell her this isn’t home. Not without Ellie, Kaylee and Butch. But what good would that do? “Just got here,” I say, jamming the key in the lock.
“Great. How’s everything?”
Everything looks peachy keen, I’m tempted to say. But I don’t. Too snarky. “So far, so good.”
“Wonderful. Did you get the fruit basket I sent?” She must have been born with that chirpiness in her voice.
Be nice, for fuck’s sake. It’s not her fault, your life is messed up. “Yes. Thank you.” She’d timed the delivery perfectly, but then I’d told her when I meant to arrive.
“Super. Do you need help finding a place to stay until your furniture gets here?”
“No. I’m fine for tonight. A new bed should be here tomorrow. The rest should arrive in a week or so.”
“Okay, Sugar. Let me know if you run into any problems, you hear? Remember our motto, ‘We’re not satisfied unless you’re satisfied.’”
How could I forget? It’s on the damn card attached to the gift basket. “I will. Thanks again.”
I barely have a chance to drop the fruit basket on the kitchen counter when the front door rings. No clue who it could be. Except for Marty and the Wolves, nobody knows I’m here. I hope it’s not another basket. There’s only so much fruit I can eat. The stained-glass window on the door reveals a curvy blonde, holding a casserole dish, on my porch.
When I swing open the door, her smile’s so bright it almost blinds me. “Hi.”
“Hello.” No fucking idea who she is.
“Thought I’d welcome you to the neighborhood, Brock.” Flawless hair, impeccable makeup, scantily dressed.
I don’t wonder what she wants. I know. “That’s very kind of you.”
“I heard you love Mexican food, so I made you my famous chicken enchiladas.” Clutched as the dish is beneath her boobs, I can’t help but notice her 36Ds.
“Thank you.” I grab it from her. “Wish I could invite you in, but as you can see”—I gesture toward the empty space behind me—“my furniture hasn’t arrived yet.”
Her face crumbles, but she recovers quickly. “Oh, I don’t mind sitting on the floor.”
“But I do. Can’t have a pretty little lady like yourself ruining your clothes. Thanks again.” I give her my most charming grin and slam shut the door.
