Completing the Pass Page 16

  The phone rang, repeatedly, and he was about to hang up and just send her a text to say hello when she breathlessly answered, “’Lo?”

  “Carri, hey.” Now that he had her on the phone, he had no clue what to say. “Uh, how are you?”

  There was a grunt, and then the clatter of something in the background. “Sweaty.”

  “Hmm.” His libido, already spiked from the adrenaline of winning the game, started to imagine all sorts of scenarios that would lead to a sweaty Carri. “Tell me more.”

  “I’m repairing some drywall, gutter brain.” She sounded amused, but just barely.

  “Drywall? Did you turn into a carpenter while I was gone?”

  “Carpenters do wood. You make me sad, Leeman. And no, if you remember me telling you, I’ve always done minor home repairs. Saves on costs when you own as many properties as I do. Well, as many properties as I have mortgaged,” she corrected. “Hiring someone to do small jobs only eats at your profits.”

  “Uh-huh.” He’d have to take her word for it. “So, what project are you working on now?” Then it hit him. She was talking about her rentals. In Utah. And work. Profits. “Did you leave?” The panic in his voice was unmistakable, and unavoidable. “Are you back in Utah?”

  “No, I’m— Ugh!” Another thump, then nothing.

  “Carri? Carri, Jesus Christ! What the hell?” He stood, pointlessly ready to dash off to nowhere because he was an entire country away.

  “I’m fine,” she panted.

  “Give a guy a heart attack,” he muttered, sinking back down onto the bed and rubbing at his chest. “What the hell happened?”

  “Dropped some drywall.” After another grunt, she grumbled, “That’s going to be a bitch to clean up.”

  “Better the floor than you.” He took a deep breath and silently begged his heart to start beating rhythmically again. But the image of Carri, lying motionless beneath a pile of toppled bricks—no matter that she’d already told him she was working with drywall—wouldn’t leave his mind. He’d come to realize that he was not all that rational when Carrington was concerned. “What’s the project?”

  “Mom and Dad’s en suite.” More grunting, and her voice echoed a little. “There was a bit of an, uh, mishap with Dad.”

  The reminder of her father’s condition pushed out thoughts of Carri’s improbable drywall death. “Is he okay? Is he in the hospital? I can get on the first flight out of here if you need me.”

  Silence met his offer, then she sniffed. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course I would.” Annoyed she would doubt him on this, he pounded his fist on the mattress. “Carri, you know I love your dad. Now tell me if I need to get out of here ASAP so I can call the team travel manager and have him work some magic.”

  “No, it’s not anything like that.” She sighed, and he thought he heard another sniffle in there, too. “He’s fine. He’s sitting in the living room watching videos of people falling down on my laptop and having a riot.” She groaned—at least he thought it was a groan. Maybe it was one of those power tools she swore she knew how to operate. “That was a rude thing to say. I just meant—”

  “You’re stressed. I know.” He hated that she had to watch her father deteriorate, and loved that she loved him enough to stay when it was clear she would rather leave. The leaving bit . . . that sucked for him on an entirely different level. “My mom could come over for a bit, if you—”

  “No.” Voice sharp, she cut him off. “I’m not asking someone else to take my spot. It’s not fair.”

  Nothing was fair in the battle against dementia.

  It was better left unsaid.

  He wanted to pull her out of the funk. “What are you wearing?”

  “Perv,” she said on a snort.

  “Yeah, but tell me anyway.”

  She paused, and he thought he heard something be set down. Then her voice was more clear, as if she’d taken the phone off speaker and was talking directly into the phone now. “My tool belt.”

  “You’ve got a tool belt?” His mind started churning several very pleasing scenarios involving Carri, a tool belt, and a large bathroom with several surfaces to use for leverage. “What else?”

  “Oh, well, I wear this bandana to keep my hair back. Keeps the dust out, too. Makes me look sort of edgy, though.”

  His dick was definitely appreciating the sultry, dark tone her voice had taken on. “Yeah?”

  “And when I get really, really hot during work,” she went on, lowering to a whisper, “sometimes, I just have to unbutton my shirt a little. Or a lot. Maybe let my pants take a hike. Bending and squatting in denim isn’t a good idea, you know.”

  She was messing with him, he was almost positive. But the erection in his lap didn’t give a shit one way or another. “Keep going.”

  “And sometimes . . .” Carri’s voice trailed off.

  “Sometimes?” he prompted.

  “Sometimes, I like to take the drill bit and—”

  A pounding at his hotel door drowned out anything she had been about to say. “Damn it!” he growled in frustration, flopping back on his bed to stare at the ceiling.

  “What?” came Carri’s confused voice.

  “Not you,” he said, cursing whoever would be messing with him at this time of night. “Some jackwagon thinks it’s funny to knock on my door when they know we’re all supposed to be in our rooms by now.”

  “Now?” He could just picture her looking around for a clock, since she never wore a watch. “But it’s . . . early.”

  “I’m two hours ahead of you, and curfew is never very late when we’re on the road. Which is fine . . . until someone decides to break it!” he finished on a yell when the pounding continued.

  “Go answer the door.”

  “I will. But first . . . I miss you.”

  There was a hitch in her breath, as clear as if he’d been sitting in front of her watching her mouth drop at the sentiment. He’d meant to take her off guard, to catch the gut reaction. Surprise, yeah. But this eerie silence, he hadn’t bargained for.

  “I . . . Thanks,” she finished, coughing a little. “Drywall dust is a bitch.”

  Yeah. Sure. Drywall dust. “I’ll be back in town tomorrow, late afternoon. Save me some time, will ya?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, then hung up.

  “Jesus Christ, answer your door or I’ll have management open it for me,” growled the voice outside.

  That was definitely not a player. He left his phone on the bed and hustled to the door, staring through the peephole before opening it. “Coach Barnes?”

  “Took you long enough. You got a woman in here or something?” The coach took a few steps in, uninvited, and looked around.

  “No, I don’t. I was on the phone, and it’s”—Josh checked his watch—“ninety minutes past curfew. I wasn’t expecting anyone to come knocking.”

  “Well, I did. Time to pull on the big britches, son.” Coach Barnes nodded at him. “Preseason is over as of tonight. Next comes the real stuff. You’ve got four days to get ready for the first game of the season.”

  “So, Trey . . . He . . . I mean, it’s not . . .” Words, Leeman, words. “Trey’s not ready.”

  “No, Owens isn’t ready. But you better be. C’mon.” Hooking his hand through Josh’s upper arm, the quarterback coach pulled. “Owens is in my room, watching game footage. He’s crazy about game footage.”

  Josh nodded absently. It was an undeniable fact that, if given the chance, Trey would probably watch nothing but game footage. It paid off, though, making him one of the best strategist QBs in the history of the game. He didn’t often have to play harder, because he played smarter.

  “Time to get some last-minute strategy done before we’re in front of prying eyes.”

  Josh’s hand trembled a little as he closed the door . . .
not with nerves, but excitement. And he wished, truly wished, Carri was there in the room with him to send him on his way with a kiss and a swift ego check.

  ***

  Carri sat on the edge of the driveway to the abandoned house at the back of her parents’ neighborhood, cross-legged, sketch pad in her lap, and pencil held loosely between her fingers. When her mother had come home and kicked her out of the house, she’d had nowhere else to go, at least nowhere she’d wanted to go. So she’d grabbed the pad and taken a walk. Somehow . . . she’d known she would end up here.

  “This is just good for my job,” she muttered as she began sketching with loose, fluid strokes. Artist, she was not. But rendering a simple graphite pencil sketch of the house was within her skills. “It’s just practice. Good for my mind, like when Dad does the word searches. Honing my skills as a developer.”

  As she drew what was already there, she began to change or improve it. Without color, it was hard to tell in some areas, but she made notes in loopy scrawling, with arrows denoting a bush here, new siding there. In her mind’s eye, the house went from dilapidated and forgotten into something warm, familiar, and safe. The perfect house for a young family. She could almost see the husband pulling up to park in front of the it for the first time, the wife clapping her hands in delight, the young baby in the backseat kicking his feet with the joy of a new adventure . . .

  “Nice drawing.”

  “Ah!” Carri rocked back in shock, then nearly rolled down the crumbling driveway’s incline when something stopped her from behind. She looked upside down and found Josh’s face looking down at her. “Asshole. What the hell was that for?”

  “I’ve been standing here for five minutes. I thought you knew and were making me wait.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” She righted herself, setting the sketch pad and pencil to the side, considering the house once more. “Okay, yeah, I would. But I didn’t hear you.”

  “I can tell.” Josh sat beside her and picked up the pad. “It’s not perfect, but it’s easy to see what you want. Is this how it starts for you?”

  “Usually. Location is paramount, followed by good bones. Everything else is superficial.”

  “Hmm.” He just kept looking at it, then the house it was roughly modeled after, then her. “It’s not something I could understand, but you seem to love it.”

  “I do. I sort of fell into it by accident, but now that I’m in it, I love it. Hunting the bargains, picking the comps, negotiating the price, figuring out what work to do and what to skip . . . Sorry.” She flushed a little and reached for the pad. “I could go on for a while. I’m like a commercial for HGTV that can’t be muted.”

  He handed back the pad without mockery. “You love what you do. That’s pretty rare anymore. Don’t apologize. I like hearing you talk.”

  It sounded so sincere. But Josh could easily have ulterior motives. “Why are you over here? I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “I walked. Visiting my mom. And you.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Why does that surprise you?”

  “Why does what surprise me?” She made a show of flipping her sketch pad back to the front, not meeting his eyes.

  “That I came over to see you. Your mouth dropped open like a bass heading for bait. We’ve been together twice now. It wasn’t enough for me. I thought I made that clear.”

  Turning, she watched his eyes change as they focused on her own. Watched the pupils dilate a little as he leaned forward. “It’s not . . . I don’t know.”

  “Come home with me. Just for a bit.”

  “Dinner,” she started to protest.

  “Dinner will wait. Come home with me.”

  “You need an ego kick?” she asked, rocking away from him a bit. “Need someone to poke holes in your God complex?”

  “Maybe I just want you.” When she said nothing, he chuckled and tapped her chin. “Close the mouth, bass. Let’s walk back to my mom’s and get in my car. I’m taking you over to my place.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Carri whispered two hours later, rubbing a hand over Josh’s still-racing heart.

  He was in too good a mood, too fine a head space for conversation. But the idea of her imparting a real secret, trusting him . . . “Yeah.”

  “Sometimes, I hate spending time with my dad.”

  He lifted one hand, though it nearly killed him to, and began to massage her scalp through her short, feathery hair.

  “You’re not saying anything,” she pointed out after a moment, still not looking at him in the darkening room. “You’re judging me.”

  He stayed silent. He sensed she needed to work through it on her own.

  With a huff, Carri shook her head against his chest. Her short hair tickled his skin. “Of course you’re judging me. I’m judging me. I mean, who the hell says that about their own father, when he’s sick? I know he can’t help it. I know the dementia’s not his fault. And I know, deep down, my dad’s still in there, somewhere. But spending time with a guy who looks like him but doesn’t always act like him . . . it’s almost worse than if he was already gone. Is that terrible?” She half-sat up suddenly on her elbow, so that his arm flung against the headboard with a crack. “Am I a monster for wishing I could just run away from it all?”

  “No.” Cupping her face, he strained up and kissed her to keep her from talking over him. “No, you’re not a monster. You’re going through the normal emotions anyone would go through when their father was facing what yours is. I think if you’d accepted it with a smile and never had a moment of weakness, it wouldn’t be real. Humans struggle with stuff. We don’t always feel consistently about things. We waiver. We debate. We tug. Sometimes we never reach a conclusion.”

  “It makes me feel horrible,” she admitted.

  “What your family is going through . . . it’s daunting. I can’t quite imagine it. My dad was, well, you know. He left. That was his choice, and he’s a bastard for it.”

  The color of frustration and anger and embarrassment bled from Carri’s face. “Oh, God, Josh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, I know you love my dad like he’s your own but . . .”

  “But he’s not my dad. Because your dad stayed, and my dad didn’t. Your dad chose you and your mom, every day, and my dad chose . . . God knows what, but it wasn’t us. I don’t resent you, Carri.” Not anymore. As a child, hell yeah, he had. But he was an adult now. And more mature than that.

  Most of the time.

  “I can listen to you have a rough day with your dad and not play the Why aren’t you grateful? game with you. You’re facing a shitty situation. It’s fine to not be strong one hundred percent of the time. I’d worry about you if you were.”

  “I love him.” Her voice wobbled, and he reached for her, then. “There are other days when I see him again, and I don’t even want to blink, or leave the room to go to the bathroom because I want to wring out every second of those good times with him. I’m terrified that they’re going to stop coming. That he’ll be gone. This swing between loving him and hating the situation . . . it hurts.”

  His thumb caressed her cheek in silent support.

  “It’s exhausting. I don’t even know how my mom is coping the way she is. I love him, and he’s just . . . not there. It’s like talking to a hologram half the time. It looks like him, it walks like him, but he doesn’t remember, doesn’t know, doesn’t understand like my dad. Hollow.”

  “Baby.” He pulled her back down against him and kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay to hate the disease. It doesn’t mean you hate him.”

  “I feel so guilty,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, and the dam burst. With a hiccup, Carri cried against his chest.

  “Oh, baby.” Knowing she just had to let it out, let the feelings she’d bottled up for so long loose b
efore they poisoned her spirit, Josh waited while she cried and wailed and clenched her fists in the sheets. While her body tightened and bowed and arched against him, while her back twisted with bone-deep sobs. Sobs that she cried for herself, and for her father who couldn’t understand enough to cry for himself.

  ***

  Carri sniffled, then turned her face to the side and started to get up. Josh held her back, as if he didn’t want to let her go quite yet.

  “Josh.”

  “Not yet,” he murmured into the top of her hair.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “To hide?” he asked softly. “Because I think the worst is over.”

  Maybe a little, but . . . “No, because I need to use the bathroom.”

  He looked skeptically at her but must have seen the fact that she wasn’t hiding. “Hurry back.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and let her up.

  Carri scooted to the bathroom naked and closed the door behind her. Then she merely gripped the countertop and stared down, unseeing, at the sink.

  Her heart . . . God, her heart. He did things like that—holding her while she wept so hard snot ran over his chest—and whispered things that made her feel like not such a monster, made her feel like maybe there wasn’t this abyss of hopelessness . . .

  He clearly was a worthy foe where the heart was concerned. But this wasn’t about the heart. This was about mutual needs.

  Right? Wasn’t it?

  Carri looked up in the mirror, then grimaced. Wow, so that’s what a crying jag would do to your eyes . . . Ew. She flushed the toilet to give credence to her escape excuse and splashed some cold water on her eyes. When that did almost nothing to alleviate the puffy redness, she sighed. Nothing to be done.

  When she opened the door, Josh wasn’t in bed. Or in the bedroom, period. In fact, he’d closed the bedroom door, for some odd reason. Gathering her clothes, she listened intently, then heard a cabinet in the kitchen open and close. Bingo. The post-sex munchies must have hit. She could get behind that. Post-sex, post-crying Carri was starving.

  Carri dressed quickly, still buttoning her shirt as she walked out of the bedroom.