All Men Fall Read online

  “Yeah, he’s a Tibetan Mastiff.” I flip the channels past several cooking shows looking for something decent to watch. “Are you hungry or thirsty?”

  “No, thank you,” she says, lying back on the lounger and letting Zeus place his head on her lap to keep the petting going.

  “If you want to sleep, I can show you where the guest bedroom is. You know, the one with the lock on the door.”

  She slowly turns her face to me, with an impish look that most definitely says she’s about to say something completely inappropriate. I love how her face gives her thoughts away. “Am I going to need that lock?” She winks at me and laughs, then looks down at her clothes. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her lips are slightly parted in mid-thought, her teeth caught on the left side of her lower lip.

  The word luscious scrolls across the back of my eyelids like a marquee sign. Dirty thoughts are leading a parade through my brain right now, and my dick wants in on the fun.

  But I can’t go there with her right now. I clear my throat and start to speak, but the first syllable comes out very deep, sounding like Barry White’s bedroom voice. My brain and dick must be working together against me, which is not what I want—or at least not right now, anyway. I want to make her comfortable here, so she feels safe. God knows she has had enough drama in one day.

  I clear my throat and start again, slowly testing out my voice. “Did—” Thank God it sounds normal. “Did you want to take a shower or something before you sleep? You need something to sleep in, too. Come on, let’s get you settled. You’ve got to be as tired as I am.” I stand, and wait for her at the edge of the couch.

  She pushes Zeus aside and crosses the room to stand next to me. Looking up at me with those marvelous blue eyes, she says, “Thank you for everything tonight. You didn’t need to be this nice to me. I could have gone to a hotel. But I didn’t want to be alone.”

  “It’s no problem. I would have worried about you alone in a hotel after the night you’ve had.”

  She hesitates for a moment as I watch her. Whatever thoughts she’s having, she backs away from saying them. Instead, she blurts out: “I really do need to wash the bar stench and sweat off me or I won’t sleep at all.”

  I take her back to my bedroom to get her some clothes. I can see her checking out her surroundings. It’s a pretty normal view; I don’t live in a mansion that would require an actual tour. Everything is nice, though. My brief football career did allow me some creature comforts.

  I pull drawers open and grab some old cotton boxers that I hope she can roll down her waist like my sister used to do, and one of my T-shirts. “Will these do?” I ask, placing the clothes in her hands.

  The back of my hand grazes hers as she accepts them. I hear her breath catch, and I could barely feel the hint of another spark of electricity again, but the clothes soften the sting.

  She bites down on her lip again and whispers, “Yes.”

  I slowly let out the longest breath I think I have ever held. Something is going on between us, and we both feel it, but tonight is not the night to act on it. I walk away from her and turn on the bathroom light, showing her the towels, soap, and anything else she might need.

  “I’ll be in the living room. Just come back out when you are ready.” I glide past her and close the bathroom door, shutting her in. Creating a barrier between us. I can’t even look at her, knowing she is about to strip down to nothing—but I stay in my bedroom until I hear the water running, in case she needs me for something.

  God knows I need her.

  I’m too wired right now to go straight to bed, so I quickly change my clothes and head to the kitchen to make some popcorn. Zeus is whimpering, so I slide the back door open and let him out.

  I hear the shower water turn off and know I have some time before she comes out to join me. I grab my lotion from the refrigerator, remove my T-shirt, and start rubbing it into the newest section of my back tattoo. The cold lotion eases the sting of the welted skin and the friction of my hand. I hate having sensitive skin; it’s just not a manly problem to have.

  It’s not even really “sensitive skin.” The only way to explain it is that everything that touches my skin causes pain. The doctors call it mechanical allodynia. I call it a pain in my ass, literally. Everything that touches my skin causes an overload of electrical impulses that jump across my nerve cells, creating physical pain. I’ve had it my whole life and have learned to live with it, because it never goes away.

  That’s why I try so hard to not be touched. It’s also how I earned my college moniker “Nick the Dick.” I’ve been known to take my rage out on my offensive line because they failed to protect me from the defense, allowing them to break the line and sack or tackle me. The media caught several of my tantrums. My guys quickly learned it wasn’t personal, but football is one of those sports that hurts—hell, everyone was in pain coming out of a game. I was no different. It just fucking hurt, and we counted on each other to prevent the pain if we wanted to win. And win we did, until I fucked up.

  The lotion is warming up as I rub it into my skin, and I start to feel what equates to solar flares burning on my skin. Right as I’m finishing up, I hear a shuffle and a surprised gasp. I turn towards the noise and see Jenna ogling me with the wonder of an art connoisseur at the Louvre.

  “I didn’t know you had tattoos. Can I see them?”

  “You really don’t want to see them. They’re just ink.”

  “Oh, I do. The creative side of my brain is in awe over how talented an artist must be to create on a live canvas. I find it fascinating.”

  She points to her left foot and I can see a beautiful rose stretched out across her foot. It goes from her toes all the way up her slim but elegant ankle. “Now that’s an amazing tattoo,” I say.

  “Thanks. It’s the only one I have and is probably the only one I will get. I shed many tears during that two hours. It might take a long time for me to muster up enough bravery for another.”

  “I know what you mean. It hurts, but at least your pain goes away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have sensitive skin, so getting a tattoo is a big deal for me.” I leave it at that, not wanting to explain. There is so much more to that story, but now’s not the time. I hand her the bowl of popcorn and quickly sling my T-shirt over my shoulders and pull it down, covering up my ink. I’m ready to move into the living room, but she’s just staring at me, mesmerized, while she slowly places a few kernels of popcorn in her mouth. She shakes her head and shifts her gaze away from me, but it’s a second too late; she knows I saw her, and a flush creeps up her neck and brightens her cheeks. She is so fucking adorable.

  We both sit on the sectional, stretching out away from each other with our heads resting on the same over-sized pillow in the middle.

  “What’s your viewing pleasure this evening?” I ask as I hand her a throw blanket to cover up those long-ass legs. That’s it, Nick. Remove all temptation from sight.

  “I don’t care, really. I am usually so keyed up after a gig that I catch up on everything I DVRed during the week, but since I can’t do that, I’m good with whatever you choose. What do you normally watch this late?”

  “Actually, I don’t watch cable. I live on Netflix. I’m currently binge-watching Supernatural. I missed out on that while I was in college, then when I went pro, there wasn’t any time for TV, what with training, sponsorship events, and charity work.” I can’t see her full face, but I attempt to keep my football history low-key. It’s not something I’m very proud of—I had many of my worst moments playing in the NFL.

  “You played in the NFL?” I can hear the excitement in her voice and instantly know her next question. “Who did you play for?”

  “I was drafted by the Oakland Raiders in 2011.”

  “Wow, that’s exciting. What happened? Were you cut from the team or did you get hurt?”

  “Hey, now,” I tease, feeling dejected and giving her my best sad face. �
��Why would you think I was cut from the team? I was a first round draft pick, thank you very much!” I grab the remote and start pushing the buttons to start Netflix. She’s going to watch Supernatural now whether she wants to or not.

  “I don’t know,” she laughs. “I like football. I used to watch it with my Dad, but not often enough to know everything about it? I figured those are about the only two things that could really happen to you, but maybe I am wrong. So what happened?” She turns to look at me expectantly.

  “Choice number two,” I say flatly. “I got hurt.”

  She laughs and throws one of Zeus’ toys at me. “I didn’t know you could really get hurt in football.” She turns to face me, smiling, and I nearly get lost in the depths of her eyes.

  “Yeah, it happens. Often, actually. I got tackled by a linebacker who slung me down by my throwing arm. I had several extensive tears to my rotator cuff. He tore my bicep too, and broke my wrist when he fell on me. He wanted the glory of the sack and a fumble recovery. It was not pretty.” I leave out the rest of the story. She doesn’t need to know it was the result of my personal play call. I changed the play that was supposed to happen. I fucked up the game for millions of people and threw away a championship win. I deserved that injury.

  She snuggles down into the blanket and turns her eyes away from me, breathing quietly and crunching on popcorn. Most people who know me know of my injury and subsequent fall from grace. They usually turn their heads away in disgust as I walk past. This girl hardly knows anything about football, and offers no words of sympathy. I really like that she didn’t say anything because I don’t like false words or fake emotions. She’s honest in her silence. I can respect that.

  Chapter 7

  Jenna

  When I wake up, I’m startled to see a trophy case. Disoriented, I blink several times but it’s still there, and the events of last night come rushing back. I groan as I remember I’m at his place, since Luke decided to terrorize me last night.

  That jackass. We are so done. I don’t put up with drama, and he was crowned king of it last night.

  As I sit up and swing my feet to the floor, I notice his monster of a dog at my feet. He’s lying on his side, twitching and whimpering in his sleep. That must have been what woke me up.

  The room looks different in the bright light of the day. His place is well-kept; clean and neat. Nick is still sleeping on the other side of the sectional—he didn’t leave me last night. God, I am so embarrassed. I hope I didn’t snore or talk in my sleep, or worse—sing. I’ve been told I do that.

  Examining my surroundings further, my eye is drawn to a beautifully etched, floor-to-ceiling mirror that runs the entire length of the dining room. Vines and small flowers creep lazily around the edges, and the morning sun is glinting brightly from its surface. I creep out from underneath the blanket, step over the dog, and tiptoe to the wall, glancing over my shoulder at Nick. He’s still sound asleep. One entire end of the mirror is covered in blue scraps of paper: the notes that I’ve left on his windshield. I never thought he would keep them. I wonder why he does?

  He’s a mystery to me. He comes to the bar just to drink—I know that’s the point of a bar, but most people our age come to socialize. They meet people, get a little buzzed, hook up, and then disappear together. Not Nick, though. He only drinks and leaves—always solo. The only people he ever talks to are the one bartender, Derek, and my uncle. Last night was the first time I saw him venture towards the band. For what seems like a million nights, I’ve been hoping—dreaming—that he would come closer to the dance floor, but he never has. I’ve done some crazy stunts on stage to get his attention, but he never notices me.

  I lift up a few of the note cards, trying to remember when and why I wrote each one. One in particular causes me to gasp—it’s the first note I ever gave him. I gently pull on it, trying not to tear any of the other cards. The tackiness of the tape finally gives, and the card comes loose from the mirror. I run my fingers over the card, tracing the words written on it. It says Damn, your smile is like sunshine on a stormy day. It touches me, knowing that he held it and cherished it by giving it and the others a place on this wall, right next to his trophy case.

  When I look back over my shoulder to see if he’s still asleep, there are piercing green eyes watching me. I tuck the card back into its place and turn to face him.

  “I, ummm, I’m sorry. I saw the sun shining on them and couldn’t tell what they were from in there. I didn’t mean to snoop.” I hold my breath, afraid of what he is going to say. I take a long look at him, waiting for his rage even though he doesn’t look angry. Instead, he’s got a sexy, sleepy look about him. His hair is mussed in the front, and he’s squinting his eyes as if the filtered sunshine coming through the blinds is just too bright.

  He rubs at his face and clears his throat. “It’s okay, honestly. I don’t mind.”

  And he’s as easy as that. Who is this man, and why isn’t there a woman here to protect him from snooping women like me? I go back to the couch, but Zeus eagerly demands my attention. I fall onto the floor in front of the beast and start rubbing him down again, just like I did last night.

  “What kind of dog is he again?” I ask. He’s beautiful, just like his owner.

  “He’s a Tibetan Mastiff,” he responds, smiling affectionately at the rambunctious animal, “and he loves attention. Don’t let him wear you out. He would let you do that to him all day long.”

  “How long have you had him?”

  “I got him three years ago. He was a gift from my Mom. He was kind of a therapy present.”

  “Really? What kind of therapy?” I ask as he averts his eyes, throws the blanket back and sets his feet on the floor. His body language screams that he doesn’t want to have this conversation. His shoulders are scrunched up and he rubs his face with a vengeance, like he’s trying to wipe away a memory. His face twitches and I remember the conversation from last night about the pain he feels when he touches his skin. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “My recovery from the surgeries to my shoulder and bicep wasn’t going very well. I went into a depression. My Mom bought Zeus for me to help lift my spirits. She thought having something else to focus on might help me keep my mind in a good place. We didn’t get along very well at first, Zeus and I. I was a terrible pet-father to him.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “No way. I can’t see you shirking your responsibilities. You don’t seem the type.”

  “I didn’t become a great father to him overnight. Long story short, my Mom passed away, and he was the last thing I had of her. Eventually, I realized that I needed to do what she expected and take care of him.”

  “What about the rest of your family?” I realize I’m being nosy, but I want to know more about this man than is plainly visible. “You don’t have to answer that,” I say quickly. “I’m snooping again. I don’t mean to. My Mom says I’m curious, and I always ask a lot of questions. They come out of my mouth before I can filter them.”

  Smiling, he says, “No, it’s okay. You need to know me to trust me, right?” he says. “I have a Dad and a little sister. We haven’t been close since Mom passed away. My Dad blames me for her death.”

  That shocks me, and my heart hurts for him. “I’m sure he doesn’t. He probably just misses her.”

  “No. He told me so,” he confesses. “She had what was called broken-heart syndrome. She had some blockage that was undiagnosed, and the stress of worrying about me and my injuries brought on a heart attack. It took her from us way too soon. My Dad blames me and the problems that came when my career ended. They couldn’t handle the media attention. I didn’t prepare them for it.”

  Nick stands up quickly. His shorts rode up while he slept, and I catch a glimpse of his massive thighs before he has a chance to jerk the legs of his shorts down to cover them. I’ve never seen all four muscles of the quadriceps on a real person, but his are well-defined. He looks like an Olympian. Every muscle on him is honed to perfect
ion, and I am suddenly restless to touch him.

  He walks to the back door and slaps his thigh, whistling and opening the sliding glass door so that Zeus can go outside. My buddy jumps up and leaves me, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. The house falls silent and I feel like I unintentionally ripped the scab off of a gaping hole in his heart.

  I walk into the kitchen to be with him; to apologize for making him talk about his Mom. He’s flipping open cabinets and drawers, and running water into the coffee carafe. I want to say something, but don’t want to interrupt him. I know these are just busy tasks to avoid continuing our conversation. He asks me if I want some coffee, but I decline. He turns off the spigot and suddenly turns to me with a look that says he’s just had a brilliant idea.

  “Why don’t we go out for breakfast? I know a great Sunday morning buffet that has everything you could imagine.” He eyes are hopeful as he waits for me to answer. He flashes that smile, winning me over. “Sure,” I reply. “I’m starving.”

  “Go ahead and get dressed first. I’ll go outside and check on Zeus.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear except last night’s clothes, and I don’t want to look like I’m doing the walk of shame at ten a.m. in my gig attire.”

  “C’mon. I’ll find you something.” We walk back into his bedroom and he starts pulling drawers open, holding shorts up to my waist that I know I’m going to swim in. I just laugh at the faces he makes as he realizes none of them are going to work. His waist is slim, but he’s massive compared to me. Finally, he goes into his closet and comes back out with a pair of cut-off sweats made into shorts that have a drawstring. It worries me that they almost look like a good fit. He also hands me a T-Shirt that says Rock Hard and warns me, “That’s my favorite old T-shirt. It doesn’t fit me anymore, but take good care of it.”