The Billionaire's Secret Love Child(51)

He backed up and eased back on his cycle, and kicked it started.

“You got a hell of a girl there,” Connor Added.

“I really do,” Buck said.

Buck turned and started walking back towards me. I was glad things ended so easily and without a fight. Then again, I did miss watching Buck get ornery.

“I’m the only one you should ever love,” shouted Gracie, then she turned her gaze toward me, “he would love me if you were dead!”

Gracie held up a revolver, taking aim straight at me. I started to duck, and I felt everything start to move incredibly slowly. I looked at Buck, who had a horrified expression.

I could remember the first time I saw him. He wasn’t as big then, but he was scrappy. I wondered if he ever thought about me when we were younger. There are worse ways to die; I wouldn’t be able to dodge at this distance.

I closed my eyes as I heard the shot, and I waited for the pain that would follow, but it never came.

I opened my eyes a second later to see Buck hovering over me. Blood poured from an open wound in his shoulder. I stared into his big eyes and he in mine.

“I love you,” Buck said.

“Don’t die,” I squeaked out.

“Ugh, it’s just a shoulder shot,” he replied, “I didn’t like that tattoo anyway.”

He collapsed on top of me. I didn’t realize how much he really weighed until then.



8.

Everything was a blur for the rest of that night. We ended up at a hospital where he got his shoulder sewn shut. I stayed with him the whole time, and we exchanged knowing glances.

He wasn’t the man I remembered at all. I wanted to hold him and never let him go. I knew he would always be there to protect me, and that was a feeling I never wanted to lose.

Connor turned in his own sister for what she’d done. I think he knew that if Buck decided to come after her, she wouldn’t have made it far. Connor even visited him in the hospital to make amends.

The next morning the hospital released Buck. He was built like a tank, and it would’ve taken a lot more to do him in.

I met him out front with his motorcycle, the old hand me down he received from father. With his arm still in a sling, he hopped on the cycle.

“I think I’ll take the lead on this one, Buck. You can’t brake with only one arm,” I said.

“This is my bike; I’m the only one in this saddle,” he said.

I cocked and eye, the same look my mother gave me a million times. It always worked on my father when he was alive, and it looked like it might just work with Buck.

He let out a drawn out sigh and scooted to the back seat of the bike. I hopped into the driver seat, and he threw his arm around my stomach.

I finally felt like I was home.

*****

THE END





More Than a Game – A College Football Romance


“Grades matter, they matter a lot. I worked harder than anyone else to get here, and I have the report cards to prove it. The lowest grade I had was an ‘A-‘, and that was because the teacher hated me. It’s a black spot on an otherwise spotless record. I don’t want another black spot. It would make all the effort I put into getting into this college moot.”

“What was your name, again?”

“You know me, Coach, I’m Christine. I’m in your athletics course on Monday, and Wednesday at 9 am. I noticed that my grades had dipped into the ‘B’ level and wanted to know what I could do to improve my grade. I need to get an ‘A’ in this course, or I may not be able to transfer to a graduate degree program.”

The coach rolled his eyes at me; I’d seen it happen before and was quite use to it at this point. His old leather chair was a bit worse for the wear, more duct tape than chair it would seem, and his hand grasped at what I could only assume was a playbook.

“Are you telling me to change your grade to an ‘A’ because you asked me to?”

“No, I want to know if there’s anything I can do to improve it. I have looked through your syllabus and have recorded my performance.”

I produced a notebook that I had kept through the entire course. I recorded my athletic improvements including my jogging speed, blood pressure, and several other factors that I felt would prove my point.

He took the book and flipped through the pages.

“Are you serious?”

I pushed my glasses from the tip of my nose.

“I assure you, I’m quite serious. I believe I’m showing major cardiovascular improvement in the class, but if my own improvement isn’t enough to sway your grading scale then I would like to know what may?”

He threw the notebook back on the desk; I felt he may be impressed by my research. He rolled his chair to a filing cabinet behind him and thumbed through the files for a minute.

“What’s your last name again?”

“Reynolds. Christine Reynolds.”

He pulled a folder from the cabinet and pulled a few papers from it.

“Have a look for yourself; it shouldn’t be hard to figure out why you have a ‘B.'”

I took the papers from him and started to read. All the categories had numbers and checks except for one; participation.

“Is this saying that I don’t participate in class?”

“That’s to say that you never engage your peers. It’s a class. I may be your teacher, but you’re actively choosing to play by yourself. You seem to go out of your way to avoid the other students.”