Apparently these so-called bonding activities take place once a month here at the nursing home. Since my parents are off on another of their monthly romantic one-day getaways, Callie is hanging out with Lexi while my brothers and I are here to represent the Kingston family.
The three of us probably all look like fools, knotted up in knitting thread and squeezing our tall asses into these tiny chairs that practically have our knees tucked up under our chins.
At least the neon green yarn fluff in Walker’s beard is distracting from his ugly flannel shirt today. “I quit,” he proclaims, slapping his mess of thread down on the empty chair beside him. “I can’t afford to lose all blood circulation to my thumbs. I’m a farmer. I need my hands.”
“Shush. Stop whining,” I mumble. My own knitting project is a hot mess on the table in front of me but I’m not complaining because frankly, I’m just happy to be out of the house. Especially after the fiasco last night turned into.
Beyond a doubt, things got out of control last night. I had no right doing half the out-of-place shit I did in Iris’s house. But the worst part? I’m having a really hard time regretting any of it.
In fact, each time I replay the lurid incidents in my mind, a molten rush zaps through my blood. I remind myself that there is nobody more off limits than a friend's ex-wife. Iris isn't just some chick Kirk dated back in college or someone he hooked up with at a frat party. He married her. They had a house together. They planned a future.
This sexual tension between me and Iris has got to stop. Right now.
But if being in a room full of respectable grannies, crocheting and sipping tea, doesn’t tame the raging beast in my pants, I’m not sure what will.
Shouldn’t the fact that she’s my friend’s ex be an instant buzzkill? Or the fact that she was my college rival? But getting her hot and submissive beneath me was satisfying as fuck, especially after the Cold Hard Bitch routine she’s been doing since the day I walked through her door. And Kirk’s absence of interest in reviving our old friendship really isn’t helping with my lack of remorse.
The little old lady sitting next to Walker regards him with an adoring smile. “You’ve got a little thread in your beard, honey.” She fondles his chin and plucks out the fuzz with her wrinkly fingers.
“Th-thanks.” My brother’s discomfort is hilarious.
I snort.
Cannon’s holding a wad of tissue to his wounded hand. He stares at me with concern. “How are things going with you, man?”
I shrug and lean back in my chair. “Just been focused on my recovery. Therapy every day. I’m on my fourth therapist now.”
Cannon chuckles. “I’m scared to ask what happened to the first three,” he spits out snidely.
“Fired their asses,” I say with zero regrets.
“Why’s that?” Walker eyes me skeptically.
“They didn’t fucking believe in me,” I announce simply. “They were just going through the motions and that pissed me off.”
I need a physiotherapist who takes me seriously because my entire future is on the line. At the end of the football season, if I’m still not able to play, I’ll need to retire or get cut. I’d convinced myself that I’d get back in the game no matter what. But the more time that passes, the more physiotherapists I go through, the harder it is for me to keep my hope alive.
It messes with my head, working with assholes who think I’m just wasting my time, that my career is done. Attitude is everything. It’s the very foundation of the seemingly impossible things I’m trying to accomplish. So, I have no qualms about showing my naysayers the door.
Walker’s new lady-friend still can’t take her eyes off him. “Such a nice, manly jaw you have.” She brushes her thumb back and forth on his chin, offering a gingerbread smile along with her molestation. “But you could use a shave.”
He slowly eases out of her grasp and shifts his chair back a touch.
The annoyed-looking man beside her gives Walker an apologetic glance. “Aunt Delores. We’ve discussed this. You can look at all the pretty boys but no touching.”
My attention turns to the worried expression Cannon throws me. “You sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard? I mean, they’re the experts. If they say you should ease up on yourself, maybe you should listen to them.”
“Football is my life, Cannon. Playing ball is my dream. It’s the only thing I ever wanted, ever since we were kids. You know that.”
“I know that, bro. It’s just…” He cuts himself off. He drops his head and shakes it.
Damn, it hurts. My own brother is giving up on me. When I need someone in my corner more than ever. That freaking hurts.
And because he’s pissed me off, I’ve decided not to tell him about the piece of blue and silver yarn he has all tangled up in his stupid man bun.
Noticing my tension, Walker changes the subject. “How are things with Iris?”
I blow out a breath. Well, that’s a loaded question.
In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve spied on her private phone conversation, insinuated myself into her finances, rubbed my sausage all over her while making a payment arrangement with her debt-collector, got her all boozed up on tequila and then ended up sleeping on the couch once she passed out drunk in my bed…
So, how are things with Iris? “Things are great,” I say flatly.
My brothers share a look.
Cannon plants an elbow on his knee and glares at me. “Dude, I put my neck on the line with Lexi to get you that rental,” he says threateningly. “Please don’t make me regret it. Don’t be an asshole.”
I flinch.
Walker expertly translates the expression on my face. “Looks like it’s a little too late for that.” He chuckles.
Cannon pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales. “Christ, what did you do, Jude?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Some
