Swing (Landry Family #2)(8)

I’m not. Strangely.

Yup. Dying.

The door stops and chimes as it opens.

“See you later,” she breathes.

The doors make the grinding sound that happens right before they start to swing closed. And then, just like that, everything changes. I see her. Danielle Ashley, the fiery little raven-haired beauty that gives as good as she gets.

Oh, how I would like to know how true that is.

She’s holding the hand of the little boy she was with the last time I saw her. He threatens to touch her with a very blue, drippy hand and she tries to look at him sternly, but it doesn’t pass as anything more than adorable. They both look up just as the doors begin to close.

Her steps falter, her eyes go wide, as the little boy’s light up with recognition.

“Lincoln Landry!” he squeals, tugging the hand she’s holding until he’s free.

The doors inch closer and closer, the window of visibility narrowing as they prepare to shut me in and whisk me way. Not happening. Not after I’ve thought of her every hour since I left here yesterday. Not after I had to jack off three times to visions of her bent over, her riding me, and me caging her into my mattress while I bust it deep inside her tight little body.

My hand shoots in front of me. This is fate. A pitch offered from the heavens. My cheeks start to ache, right along with my forgotten shoulder, as I smile at the look of pure amusement on her face.

The room is vacant besides Danielle and the little boy as I step onto the tile. He runs to me and jumps straight into my arms with no warning, his blue painted hand stamping a perfect little print on the front of my The Resistance t-shirt. Danielle’s face bunches in horror.

“Rocky!” she shouts.

The little boy giggles, positioning his face directly in front of mine. Bright blue eyes look back at me above a spattering of freckles. “You’re Lincoln Landry,” he breathes like he’s just seen Santa Claus.

“I am?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

“You are,” he breathes in awe. “I know who you are. My big brother has a poster of you in his room.”

“And you don’t?” I ask, frowning.

“My mom won’t buy me one. She says I’m too little.”

I lean forward until our noses are touching and whisper, “She can’t say no if I give you one as a gift, right?”

He giggles. “No.” Rocky presses his paint-free hand against my shoulder, making me grimace in pain. Danielle is to our side just as I stifle the string of profanities threatening to spill out.

“Rocky,” she says, reaching us. “You can’t go jumping on strangers. Look at Mr. Landry’s shirt.” He doesn’t look at her. He’s still watching me. I’m still watching him, too, even though the entire universe seems to be pulling me to the woman at my left.

“Did that hurt?” he asks.

“A little,” I say with as little evidence of just how bad as I can manage.

“Lincoln, I’m so sorry,” Danielle apologizes, taking Rocky out of my arms. “Give me a minute, please.”

She bends her fine ass down until she’s eye-level with the boy. I’ll give her all the minutes she needs if I can stand here and watch her about to burst out of that dress.

“I need you to go back to your room and wash your hands,” she tells him. “Can you do that for me?”

He nods, but looks at me over his shoulder. “Lincoln?”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Will you come paint with me tomorrow?”

“Rocky . . .” Danielle scoffs.

“Sure I will,” I say, grinning at her. “What time, Rockster?”

“I don’t know how to tell time,” he says, his brows coming together. “After lunch I watch the Muggies on TV. After that, you can come.”

“Okay. I’ll be here after lunch and Muggies.”

He darts down the hall, his hospital gown blowing in the air behind him like a superhero’s cape.

“I’m so sorry about your shirt. Let me put something on it so the paint comes off easier.” She turns away and pads over to a little closet. She rummages around, and when she faces me again, nearly drops the bottle in her hands.

“What?” I ask, extending my hand in front of me. My t-shirt is balled up, a smirk deepening as I watch her gaze sear my abs. “Didn’t you ask for my shirt?”

She starts to speak but gets stuck on the lump in her throat.

“I think,” I say, running a hand down my front, “it’ll be a ten-pack soon.”

“If I came closer, I’m pretty sure I could count ten.”

“What’s holding you back?”

Her cheeks heat, but she turns away from me and puts the bottle back in the cabinet. “Put your shirt on,” she orders. She looks at me and then pulls her gaze away instantly. “Now. Please. For both of our sakes.”

“Fine, fine,” I say, trying to pretend to huff. “Now my shirt will be ruined.”

“I’ll buy you another.”

“Johnny Outlaw signed this one. You’re not going to just buy me another one.”

“Johnny touched that? Well, in that case, give it to me!” she nearly sighs.

“I also touched it,” I say, a little snarkier than I care to admit. “You know, the best centerfielder in baseball? The guy with these abs?”