Page 32 of Second Go-Round

I understood after having met Christine and feeling that connection between us as strong as an electrical current hell-bent on jumpstarting a heart I claimed to not have.

And that fact scared the shit out of me.

She enamored me. Stole into my brain with pure witchery. Sank claws into my chest as though needing purchase—a solid foundation on which to build the rest of her life. Someone to care for her. To hold her.

But I had nothing to offer and told myself I didn’t want to even if I did have space in my soul.

I adjusted myself through my jeans before pulling the wings off the grill out on my enclosed back patio. Forgetting about Christine wouldn’t come easily regardless of the Patriot’s anticipated game with Pittsburgh. I’d spent the previous couple of hours cleaning up my place and getting all our usual tailgating food ready for the guys. Nacho dip sat in the oven, a couple six packs cooled in my fridge. They would bring a few other snacks as well, and we would all end up buzzed and feeling stuffed full as turkeys on Thanksgiving Day.

My doorbell rang, and I let myself back through the screen slider into my kitchen, set the bowl of wings on the counter, and made my way through the hallway into my foyer. Micah and his brother Sean stood on the stoop.

“What’s up?” I asked, stepping out of the way to let them in.

Micah clasped my hand, his other arm bearing a grocery bag. “Jarod.”

I ruffled Sean’s dirty blond hair like I always did, turning his grin into a scowl. “Hey, kid.”

“Not a fucking kid,” he grumbled, sidestepping to escape me.

Snickering, I went to shut the door but noted Daniel Cooney pulling in front of my condo in his Cherokee.

I waited for him as Micah and Sean made for the kitchen to unload their food.

Cooney glanced around the neighborhood as he climbed from his vehicle, dark eyes cataloging everything in the vicinity as he did every time he showed up somewhere. The man was careful. Calculating. Seemed the type to have at your back whenever shit hit the fan. And at 6’5” and ripped as fuck, he promised to be one hell of an adversary.

He took a crockpot out of the back of his car, leaving the door open.

“What’s in there?” I asked as he drew near, red hair mussed to hell as usual but his short beard meticulously trimmed.

“Homemade meatballs.”

“Fuck yeah.” I took the pot as he held it out to me.

“Got rolls too—be right back.” He turned and strode toward the car, but I waited for him rather than head to the kitchen.

Once Cooney locked up and headed my way, I let him in on what had gone down the evening before.

“Almost called you last night,” I said, kicking my front door shut behind his big ass as he stepped past me, two bags in his meaty paws.

“For?” He grunted the word, moving back through the hallway.

“The client I was with has an exhibitionist fantasy. Figured you’re into all that other kinky shit so you’d be up for it.”

“Other kinky shit?” he questioned.

“BDSM—ropes and such.”

He grunted, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of the noise.

“It’s rumored you do demonstrations over at Chantelle’s,” I tacked on.

Cooney shot a glance over at me while sitting his stuff on the counter, his gaze piercing. “Who’d you hear that from?”

“Micah.”

His lips pressed tight.

“So it is true? You like to tie chicks up and whip their asses?”

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