Page 40 of Body Check
Blue: Your jealousy is showing. But do you really think she’d cut my hair? I’m overdue for a trim.
Blue: And I hope your ass feels better.
Dutton sets his phone on the nightstand before rolling onto his side to face me. “He’s wrong, you know.”
“Obviously,” I say, swatting his arm playfully.
“Not about that. About me being jealous. I mean, who’d be jealous of that asinine haircut? But seriously, I’m not jealous of anyone or anything. Nobody has it better than I do right now. Nobody.”
To prove his point, he cups the back of my neck and molds his lips to mine. I’m surrendering to his touch, but one part of me is holding back because I know that no matter how happy Dutton is right now, he’d be happier if I weren’t forcing him to be a secret.
17
Dutton
It’s too fucking loud in here, and too damn crowded. And, fine, I’m in a bar in Las Vegas at a quarter to midnight, so what the hell am I expecting? Maybe some peace and quiet, but with this team, there’s zero chance of that happening any time soon. One of the former players, Booker Zabek, played in his first AHL game tonight, so Ollie decided to live up to the title of cruise director and organize a field trip. Most of the guys are having a blast—we are in Vegas, after all—but I’m in a piss-poor mood.
Shocking, I know.
First of all, I miss my girl.
Saturdays are her busiest days at the salon, so it would have been shitty of me to ask her to reschedule a bunch of clients just to tag along and keep my ass happy. And, of course, if I would have asked, it would never work because there’s no reason for Bridgette to be on this trip. Fallon’s here because Booker is her brother, Liza‘s here because she works for the team, Annabelle tagged along to be with Dean, and Maggie and JT made a little family trip out of it. Other than that, it’s just a bunch of smelly hockey players on this trip.
There’s no reason for Bridgette to be here, and even if she were, I’d have to ignore her the whole damn trip, which is pure torture. Last week’s pool party proved that. And it also proved that the longest we can go in each other’s proximity before getting naked is about three hours.
That data tells me we’d have been sneaking off to the damn bathroom on the plane before we reached cruising altitude.
There’s nothing sexy at all about a bathroom, but I still wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to take care of my girl before a long flight. You know, to help calm her nerves or some shit.
“You are one grumpy motherfucker,” Ollie says, clapping me on the shoulder. “What’s with the frown? Did you make that face when you were eight, and it froze that way? I always heard that could happen, but I never believed. Tough break, man.”
He’s hanging his head in mock sadness, but I don’t react at all. I stay completely stonefaced while sipping my club soda. Shit like that pisses guys like Ollie off way more than if I’d curse at him or give him the finger. He’s not a bad guy, but he’s not happy until everyone around him is as high on life as he is, and that’s not fucking happening. Especially not tonight.
My plan is to freeze him out until he walks away, but the fucker foils me and gets all emotional. Jesus.
“Hey, Wagner, seriously, are you okay? If you need something?—”
I want to tell him that I need to be left the fuck alone, but I can’t piss him off too much. If Bridgette and I ever do go public, I need Ollie on my side, or at least not leading the charge against me. “I’m good,” I assure him. “Just tired. I think I’ll head back to the hotel.” There. I was polite, and it was relatively painless. And my prize for not being a total asshole is that I get to five minutes all to my fucking self while I walk down to where we’re staying.
“Great,” Ollie says, looking relieved. “I’ll walk with you. I’m heading that way to check on Fallon. She’s meeting her brother,but it’s about to be her birthday in…thirteen minutes,” he says, checking his watch, “and I don’t want her ringing in her twenty-first all by herself.”
Dammit. Now I've got a buddy for my walk back. At least it’s a short trip. We let the others know where we’re headed, and then we step outside into a sea of bright lights and traffic. We’re about a block away from the hotel when I open my mouth. I don’t know what causes me to initiate a conversation. Maybe it’s a muscle spasm. Let’s go with that. “Are you sure Fallon wants to toast her birthday with you? Doesn’t she hate you?” I ask. I don’t pay too much attention to my housemates, but there are three things I know for certain. Liza can’t stand Blue, Fallon can’t stand Ollie, and Mickey can’t stand taking his meds for more than three days in a row.
“Hate is a very strong word,” Ollie says. “And besides, there’s a blurred line between love and hate, right? That’s how the saying goes?”
Instead of correcting him, I grunt something that sounds like goodnight, and I leave him at the entrance of the lobby bar while I head for the bank of elevators. As soon as I get inside, I check my messages. It’s damn near three in the morning back home, so I’m not really expecting to hear from anyone, but ever since I had lunch with my dad, Nick, and Uncle Steve this week, I’ve been a little jumpy. It was fine. Nothing too out of the ordinary happened, but as much as I hate to admit it, he seemed a little off.
Nick kept shooting me looks every time my dad stumbled over a word, or when he asked the waiter the same question three different times. I was tempted to kick my cousin under the table. He’s expecting too much, too soon. The guy was in a major accident. It’s going to take him some time to bounce back.
His follow-up appointment is next week, though, and I’m going to do my damnedest to be there, even if it means skipping another conference. It worked out pretty well for me last time.
And that brings me right back to Bridgette. It’s fucked up that she isn’t even making plans to talk to her brother about us, but I’m so damn gone for her that I’m willing to play by her rules for a little while longer. Blue keeps busting my balls that we’ll finally tell Mickey on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The fuck of it is, he’s probably right. I talk a big game, but I’m putty in this woman’s hands and I damn well know it.
Stripping my jeans, t-shirt, and socks off, I pull back the covers and lie down in the hotel bed. I hate sleeping in unfamiliar places, so I know I’m probably in for a restless night. Grabbing my phone, I play a couple games to help me wind down. They don’t relax me, of course. They keep me just awake enough to keep playing, but not awake enough to do anything productive like study for my stats exam or watch game tape. I tell myself I’ll play for five more minutes and then plug my phone into its charger so I can toss and turn all night, but just as my countdown is coming to an end, a message pops up on my screen.
Bridgette: I'm sure you’re sleeping, and I hope this doesn’t wake you. I just wanted to ask how Vegas is going. And I wanted to say I miss you.
Dutton: Can’t sleep, so you definitely didn’t wake me. I miss you, too. How was work? Any good bridezilla stories?
