SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)(71)

“But it’s been six months—” he began.

“And you thought I’d come around?” I interrupted. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Derek, but you walked into this with your eyes open.”

“So now what?” he asked, a touch of resignation in his voice. I guess he’d remembered how strongly I felt about not committing.

“Go out,” I said. “Have some fun, go sleep with other people. You clearly want more than I’m prepared to give, so you’ll have to find someone else to get it from.”

A new wave of anger flushed red in his face. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he yelled.

“It means I’m saving you from any more trouble,” I spat, turning to go. “I’m going back to my place. Delete my number.”

“Are you serious?” he bellowed. I had no time for his immature theatrics. “You’re just going to fucking throw it all away?”

I heard him stride angrily towards me as I opened the door and felt his hand descend on my shoulder. I spun around fast, putting all of that gathered momentum into my arm, and swung my fist to strike him squarely on the chin. He staggered back, still on his feet but holding his face in pain. He looked up at me in surprise.

“You also knew that you were never to put your hands on me in anger,” I told him. “Sorry, Derek, but I think you’ll agree this is for the best.” I slipped out of his apartment, down the stairs, and into my car. Starting the engine, I looked up to his window, and I could see him watching me leave, outlined against the warm light behind him.

For a second, happy memories flashed through my mind. I saw us laughing and taking selfies at a downtown parade. I remembered him bringing me a rose as I relaxed in a candlelit bubble bath he’d run for me. I lingered on the feel of him above me, under me, or behind me as we orgasmed together, time after time.

I almost shut off the car and went back inside…but no. I didn’t really want that, and I knew it was hurting him, too. He wanted commitment, and I needed to be free to leave if I wanted. He’d put his hands on me, raised his voice at me, just like my dad did with my mom. So I’d hit him. I shifted into reverse, spun the car around, and drove home.

***

I couldn’t let myself get caught up in any of that. As soon as there was commitment, there was the chance for betrayal. Take my parents, for instance. They were so in love when they were younger. I could remember the way they used to smile at each other, smile at me, and the love that filled our little home. But I also remembered what happened as my father began to gain success in his job. He was a NASCAR driver, and when he started winning, he began staying away from home longer. We used to travel around to the racetracks with him, but after a few years, we stayed home so I could go to school. And my folks had started to fight.

I know my dad used to fool around with other women at the races, and I know they used to fight about it. I loved my dad, but I knew he didn’t want us with him when he traveled the circuit. He would say he didn’t want me to be there because he didn’t want me to see anything bad happen to him; even though that may have been part of the truth, he mainly didn’t want my mom around so he could have some fun while he was away from home. That was why neither of us had been there when he hit the wall. Neither of us knew when his car exploded, trapping him inside as it burned. Neither of us knew he was dead until we got a call from the team owner that evening. I’ve hated motorsports of every kind ever since.

With these hurtful thoughts running through my head, I reached my little home quickly. The flowerbeds were starting to bloom and would look lovely in a week or two, no thanks to me. My gardener/caretaker/neighbor could take all the credit for them; I paid him to keep my yard nice and for the fresh coat of white paint on my humble three-bedroom, single-story house. At least that, thanks to my dad’s success before he died, was paid for and all mine. As was my Mustang. I looked back at the red, late-model convertible as I opened my front door. I loved it, and when I cruised in the sunshine with the top down, I looked and felt sexy. I hated racing and racetracks, but I could never hate cars.

I let myself in and hung up my keys, but barely had my jacket off before my phone rang. My boss, Geoffrey, was calling. I worked in PR, handling clients on an account-by-account basis. If our firm took on any new business, I went to meet them, hang out with them, and be their PR rep for a while until we figured out what strategies to put in place and how best to promote them.

It could take a week or it could take six months. It could keep me here in Austin or it could take me all over the world. And it could involve me doing anything from organizing a red carpet dinner to sending a selection of call girls to a competitor’s room and causing some very bad press. My job was never dull, and Geoffrey was calling this time because we had a new client, a potentially lucrative client. Tomorrow I was to attend a black tie dinner at the Four Seasons.

***

I spent Saturday going over the brief our office had prepared for me and surfing the web for research. The glossy brochures and leaflets showed me a major tire manufacturer that wanted to launch a new product while at the same time totally revamp its US brand image. It was a tall order, but far from impossible. They were attending a banquet at the Four Seasons that night because the Moto GP, which was like the Formula One of motorcycles, was being held at the Circuit of the Americas, just outside of Austin, all weekend. In fact, the race teams had been there Friday and Saturday, practicing and qualifying, and they were having a big dinner tonight because the main race was the next day at 2:00 p.m. Not awesome for me, but I couldn’t let my resentment towards motorsports get in the way of my job.