Chapter 22

After returning from Anniston, to say I remained in a daze was the understatement of the year. Of the dammed century. As I stumbled into the house and hurled myself into an icy shower, my mind whirled. The piercing spray did nothing. My body burned for Chanelle. Seriously, I mopped sweat from my brow while devouring a peanut butter sandwich. My entire frame—blazed.

An actual fever.

And it wasn’t only how close Chanelle had come to doing more in my truck. After collapsing onto the couch, I stared at the faded paint on the wall, failing to stop the ceaseless flashes of memories and images. Nothing worked. They continued to pummel me. My entire world was turning upside down. And not just the room spinning because of Chanelle. But also Mrs. Jenkins. My heartbeat thundered. I was going to Las Vegas. Soon. Very soon.

“If I can even leave,” I murmured before shoving back to gaze at the ceiling.

I mean, of course I could go. Momma had given me the backpack and more than a hint. Nobody at school could really stop me. Since I was eighteen, I was legally an adult. But then there was ... My brain flip-flopped.

Mrs. Jenkins.

Coach and his wife.

“What about them? What did I owe them?” I mumbled as my chest tightened. I gulped. “The truth, you idiot.”

But when? Right then. I should call them. As a slow exhale left me, I shook my head. No. What if Chanelle changed her mind? Her dad ... Perhaps he’d simmer down. After all, she’d said he’d been drunk.

“Ugh!”

With a snarl, I leaped from the couch to make another sandwich. Since the Wonder Bread was pure air, the first had done nothing to end the gurgling in my chilled guts. Though sweat trickled from my forehead, my stomach, where my heart had crumpled, was an icy puddle of gloom. As I ate it at the window, the enormous willow swayed in a forceful breeze.

After a lengthy sigh, I looked at the phone. It was still early. I could call Coach. Veteran’s Day was next weekend. We had a half-day at school on Friday and no practice. I’d no idea when we were to leave.

Should I wait to tell them about Vegas until after Atlanta? With a shrug, I turned from the window, seeking a pitcher of ice water in the fridge. After closing the door, I guzzled two full glasses and exhaled.

With my hands flat on the kitchen counter, I again stared out the front. One by one, as my fingers twitched, pieces slotted together. Looking back, it may not have been the best plan, but it was the one I made.

One. No. I wouldn’t say anything to Coach or his wife until I knew for sure Chanelle and I were leaving.

Two. I’d tell momma about the same time. She’d only start worrying way too early, not that she wouldn’t worry the whole time I was gone.

Three...

Three? God, I wanted Chanelle in the worst possible way. How would I make that a special event?

Okay, it was only a partial plan. No matter. As I shoved off the counter to refill the pitcher before placing it in the refrigerator, I had a slight grin. At least, it was a start.

The next day at church was—normal. After we’d listened to the sermon, momma socialized. Well, normal for my changed life. As the pastor droned on, my mind flickered through images of Chanelle in the truck. The way the molten amber in her eyes had gleamed. The soft wet silk of her panties under my racing fingertips. God forgive me, but her suction. Wow!

At tumbling visions of Mrs. Jenkins, I’d been forced to hold in a moan. Flashes of lightning illuminating her splayed out pale frame in the muddy grass. Her tight little ass glistening with my seed. The glint of her eyes as she rode me in the pool. That little gasp when I’d told her I’d enjoyed—I glanced around at the other parishioners, my heart thumping—raping her as I’d left. Not that it was much of a “rape,” since she’d done more than her fair share of the work.

When I chuckled, an old woman in a massive pink and white feathered bonnet next to me glared.

It was the following day, at the first sight of Coach during Monday’s practice, my heart plummeted into my stomach. Not because he’d noticed me, but my plan ... Yeah, there were some missing pieces. Like, for example, step four. Had his wife even told him about Atlanta? I’d only assumed she would. Or five. How the heck was I going to explain the Atlanta trip to Chanelle?

As Coach worked us hard under the blazing sun, the humidity spiked. So much for fall. Coach remained silent; no word about leaving on the weekend. Despite his occasional lingering inspection, he offered me not a word that wasn’t football-related. Tuesday was more of the same. By the end of Wednesday’s practice, we were zombies staggering into the showers.

At Cyril on his knees on the soapy yellow tile, the ache deep in my pelvis throbbed. His head was bobbing before chuckling Danny Mullen, our blonde-haired, blue-eyed star quarterback. Chanelle’s amazing full red lips and heart-melting smile. Mrs. Jenkins’ fathomless glimmering eyes. As lukewarm spray pounded me, both were so far away. And I needed. Them. Both.

“Hey, did you see Coach’s wife? Holy fuck, she’s hot.”

After turning to the hushed voice, I spotted Dennis Kincaid and Keenan Walker, two of the linebackers, laughing as they looked towards the locker room. Though I followed their gaze, I couldn’t spot anything.

“What’re you guys talking about?” I asked.

“Mrs. Jenkins. She’s in Coach’s office,” Keenan said with a grin while flapping his hand. “But damn. She’s like seriously dressed up. Hot. Real hot.”

“Lookin’ fine, Hiram. Damned fine,” Dennis added while nodding.

“I mean, really,” Keenan leaned closer under the pouring water to whisper. “How does a fat fuck like Coach rate her, anyway?”

With a sigh, I turned from them, letting their following comments disappear in the pummeling spray as I lathered. To be honest, I’d never actually asked that question. Love is blind, I’d guessed. I mean, why the heck would somebody as gorgeous as Chanelle be interested in me? Especially given her family’s discomfort with my race. At the club where she danced, there must’ve been hundreds of better-looking guys chasing her. Or even at DiGrigio’s, where I’d first spotted her.

Once I’d rinsed, I stepped from the showers to dry before wrapping a towel around my waist. Mrs. Jenkins was here, huh? With my heart beginning a twisting climb in my tensing chest, I crept towards Coach’s open office doorway. Perhaps they were ... You know, only chatting. She’d stopped by on the way home from errands.

“I don’t care,” I mumbled. “I want to glimpse her again.”

There I’d said it. With the air catching in my throat, I moved closer, leaning around the last row of lockers to peek into Coach’s office. As soon as Mrs. Jenkins’ silhouette came into view, my heart thumped, skipped a beat, and froze.

Damn. My teammates hadn’t been kidding.

With her blonde hair curled and held back by a glinting gold barrette, Mrs. Jenkins sat in one of the chairs before her husband’s desk. She wore a thigh-length, tight black skirt and scoop-necked, sleeveless ivory blouse that clung to her like a second skin. At the shadowy peaks and traces of a lace bra beneath her top’s thin material, my towel nudged upwards. With her legs crossed, a glossy black open-toed stiletto tapped in the air as she spoke to him.

When Coach rose to his feet, I jolted. Though I’d only frozen for a second, he caught sight of me while moving to close the blinds.

“Hiram!” He beckoned with a flick of his hand. “Get in here.”

After a curt nod, I walked into the room. The vibe between them was—unusual. Something had changed. Although Coach remained unmoving before the still-open blinds, Mrs. Jenkins stood and gazed deep into my eyes. When she sashayed past, dragging her nails across the front of my towel, my pulse hit the stratosphere.

Really?

Although I shot my gaze to Coach, he only swallowed, flicked the blinds closed, and returned to his chair. Once seated with his hands folded on the gray metal desktop, he was unmoving but for heavy sighs as he stared at his clenched fists.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Hiram.”

At Mrs. Jenkins’ breathy voice, I turned to see her shove the door closed. After locking it, she flashed me a devilish grin and repeated her languid clawing on the way back to her seat. In her wake, a lingering cloud of enticing French perfume sent ripples along my spine. Beneath the straining towel, my thickening mast lurched skyward.

Time sorta slowed. While Mrs. Jenkins crossed her shapely legs, my brain calculated every millimeter of exposed thigh. There were a lot of millimeters of tanned skin. With a gulp, she spotted the next forceful surge beneath my towel before holding my gaze. Even in the darkened room, brilliant emeralds, her eyes were glimmering pools of—hunger. Pure longing. As the gold nails on her fingers glittered, she eased the hem higher. Not subtle. As she lingered on the thundering bulge under the towel, her teeth sank into her glossy, red lower lip. After a slow scan of my bare torso, she shifted her gaze to Coach.

“Go ahead. Ask him, dear.” While her voice was measured, a hint of tension lingered after she fell silent.

“Uh, um, Hiram...” Coach glanced at the closed blinds, then to his wife, before finally looking at me. “Would you, um...? Well, uh...” As he continued to hesitate, his wife’s nails twitched, dragging along her bare knee. Beneath tightening brows, her eyes narrowed at him. After a peek at her, he swallowed. Words flew from him. “Cindy wants you to go with her to Atlanta.”

Welp, that answered that question. She’d told him about the trip. But he was asking for her? Okay, we’d play this game—again. Except, as I scanned them, it wasn’t the same. Nowhere near the original script.

Although his expression was identical to the one he’d worn at DiGrigio’s, when I looked at his wife, she was motionless and silent. As she held her gaze on him, Mrs. Jenkins’ slender pale fingers had halted, but her teeth were deep in her lower lip. A slanting ray of sunlight that’d penetrated the blinds glinted off her thick lipstick.

With my pulse speeding, I flicked between them as the room faded to dimness. What was my role? What was the new script? Had she told him what she’d felt for me? What we’d left unsaid? As if a dam burst, my pulse surged. Did any of that matter? I wanted her. All of her. For myself.

“To do what, Coach?”

At my calm question, Coach’s expression remained neutral. No surprised look. Only a single clenched finger twitched. Alright, so his wife must’ve also told him what we’d said to each other during the storm. At least the words, if not the heart-twisting looks that had passed between us. After a lengthy swallow, he left me to look at his wife. While running her palms along the top of both thighs, that impish grin widened on her face.

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