Out of Bounds(8)

This is where I drop the news that we’re orphans, right? When I dive into the sob story of how it’s just the two of us navigating the great wide world alone? She’s the only one I’ve ever loved and I volunteer as tribute?

But while I would take her place in the hunger games, I don’t have that kind of tale to tell. Our dad is a high school football coach in San Diego, our mom is a bank teller, and they lost all their retirement money in the last recession. They couldn’t afford to pay for Ally’s college, so she nabbed scholarships, just as I’d done. But grad school was tougher, and that’s why I told her I’d take care of her bills for nursing school. She says she’ll pay me back someday. I doubt I’ll let her. I like taking care of her. Keeping an eye on her is one of my greatest joys in life because she’s so freaking awesome. When we were growing up, she worshiped me, and I adored her. We baked chocolate chip cookies as a team for our dad’s games and cheered from the sidelines as a sibling unit. I taught her how to recognize the shotgun, the pistol, and the wishbone formations, which scored her major points with Dad. We’ve seen every episode of the Gilmore Girls together at least three times, and still secretly hope that Stars Hollow is a real place. If that doesn’t spell sisterly love, I don’t know what does.

Plus, I’ve done well as an attorney, so I can manage the school bills.

As long as I don’t lose my job.

I drum my fingers on the counter. “I need to get to work, sweets. I have a ton to do today, and I don’t want you late for class,” I say, as she gathers up her books and jams them into her messenger bag.

As we walk to the door, she tugs gently on my hair, something she always did when she was little, “I can’t thank you enough for driving me. My car is asking for a knuckle sandwich these days.” She holds up her fist to demonstrate what she wants to do to her little Honda.

“You’re not that far away from me, and your class is on my way in,” I say, making light of it. Fact is, I’d probably do anything for her. She has that kind of hold on me. In some ways she’s always felt like my baby, and I definitely helped to raise her.

We head down the steps of her building and slide into my car. I pull out of the lot and into sluggish morning traffic. But my traffic app is the greatest thing since sliced bread, ice cream, and sex, so I manage to avoid the busy roads, darting onto side streets and dodging the snarls.

As I slow at a light, Ally hums.

Which means she has something brewing in her big brain.

With my right hand I make a rolling gesture. “Spit it out.”

She screws up the corner of her lips, then looks at me, her blue eyes intense. “You could call him.”

I scoff by way of answer.

“You could, Dani,” she says, insisting.

“A minute ago you called him a dick,” I point out as the light changes and I hit the gas.

I still can’t believe I misread Drew Erickson so badly. I swore he was going to call. I was sure he’d be a man of his word. Sweet and snarky, and funny and sexy, and he said he would—those all made a phone call seem like a done deal. But more than that, his raging erection seemed like his collateral. That man had a fine cock working under those shorts, and I can only imagine what it would feel like to get my hands on it. Oh, wait. I did. That night I had pictured him as I slipped under the sheets. I imagined him sliding into me, and sending me soaring. The man made me come hard in my fantasies after he left, and I was damn sure I’d hear from him in real life that night.

Then the next day.

Then the next.

Then, I realized I’d been played.

Ally taps the dashboard. “Yes, I did call him a term for the male appendage, but seeing as I like said appendages, perhaps I meant it as a compliment.” She wiggles her eyebrows, a naughty little look in her baby blues.

I laugh. “Oh, that’s good. Your wordplay. You sound like the lawyer now.”

“I learned from the best,” she says wryly. Then she takes a beat and adds, “But I also trust your instincts. You really liked him, and you guys had a good connection. Maybe you could reach out to him. You could find his number in a heartbeat. You’re a confident, single woman, and you don’t need to wait for a man to call you. Besides, maybe there’s a simple explanation for him not calling.” She snaps her fingers. “Like he dropped his phone in the shower.”

I crack up. “Why on earth would he be using his phone in the shower?”

“Watching the news, obviously,” she says confidently. “He’s so worldly and concerned about the state of global affairs that he watches the news in the shower.”

“And then he slipped and broke his phone?”

“It was a very intense news story.” Her eyes widen with excitement as she weaves her tall tale. “Or maybe the phone shielded his fall!”

“Or maybe you’re hearing one too many crazy stories about falls in the shower in nursing school,” I say dryly.

“Look. Two-thirds of all accidental injuries occur in the bathroom. Things get slippery in the shower. All I’m saying is, it’s possible there’s an explanation for him not calling.”

“Explanations like that only happen in the movies. Real life consists of men saying they’ll do one thing, then doing another. Because the explanation is this,” I say crisply as I drive. “He’s a pro athlete. He’s used to miles and miles of women offering up their bodies on silver platters, and I didn’t offer mine. So the phone call he got on my porch was probably his ‘save my ass from a woman who won’t put out’ call from a friend.”