Grady wanted to see me again after I insinuated I had an uncontrollable bowel or something? For real?
A shocked laugh burst out of me. I didn’t even know what to think of that, and I felt like I needed a gallon of coffee to truly process it.
I threw the covers off my legs and rose from the comfy bed, padded across the plush carpet, and made my way down the narrow hallway, into the sunlit kitchen and living area. The hardwood floors in the main part of the apartment were cool under my bare feet.
Rhage was sitting on the kitchen island, his bushy tail swinging to and fro as he watched me shuffle toward the coffeemaker.
“There’s food in the bowl,” I told the cat, placing my phone on the counter. “You can eat the dry kibble and it won’t hurt you.”
As I turned around, Rhage hopped off the island and pranced out into the living room, his furry butt high in the air. A second later I heard one of the thick pillar candles hit the floor and roll across it.
“Ass,” I muttered and then said louder, “You’re eating the food in the bowl.”
Another candle hit the floor.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Throwing a temper tantrum is not going to get you anywhere.”
There was a moment of silence and then the loud thump of the wooden candleholder joining the candles on the floor. Then the remote hit the floor, and I knew he’d move on to bigger and more fragile things, like the blue blown-glass bottles situated on the center of the coffee table.
“What a diva.”
Sighing, I pivoted around and went to the narrow pantry. I opened the door and grabbed a small can of wet cat food. The tinny sound of the lid peeling open was like ringing a damn dinner bell. Tiny cat paws scampered off the floors and Rhage came slipping and sliding into the small kitchen. I raised a brow as he crashed into his water bowl. Water sloshed over the side, spreading across the mat the bowls sat on.
Rhage stared up at me with yellow eyes, ears perked, and I’d swear, if I didn’t know better, the damn cat was smiling.
I was such a pushover.
Seriously.
My gaze drifted to where my phone sat. Grady’s laugh was . . . it was cute. Maybe I would call him back and take him up on his offer.
Maybe.
Later that day, after reading what had to be every article on Buzzfeed, I picked up my phone and called Grady.
And I made plans to see him next weekend, when he was back in town.
Chapter 5
I spent the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday absurdly proud of myself, because agreeing to go out with Grady again without Cam and Avery was a good step—a great step, because what else would I be doing?
Living like a hermit in my apartment, arguing with my asshole cat while trying not to drop ice cream on my Kindle and using my stomach as a table for my bowl? Yep. That sounded almost right.
Sunday night, I spent an ungodly amount of time going through my closet, plotting what I would wear on my first day at work at the Academy. That time was interrupted by a call from the mothership.
“Are you excited about tomorrow?” That was what Mom said when I answered the phone.
I grinned. “I am. I’m a little nervous. I’m trying to figure out what to wear.”
“Honey, it’s a training facility. You could probably wear jeans.”
“I cannot!” I shook my head as I rummaged through the stacks of black work pants and then eyed the skirts and dresses I never wore. “The staff in Philly don’t wear jeans. Unless that’s changed?”
“Your father owns the company. You can wear whatever you want,” she replied dryly.
That was not true, not even remotely. The fact that my father owned the company and the assistant-manager job had been created out of thin air was probably going to be an issue with some of the staff at Martinsburg, but I was trying not to dwell on it.
“So, how did your date with your friends go?” Mom asked, changing the subject.
“It was good.” I plucked out a pair of pants and held them to my chest. “Speaking of my date, you’ll never guess who I ran into.”
“Santa?”
I rolled my eyes. My mom was weird. Loved her, but she was so weird. “Um no. I ran into Brock.”
Mom was silent.
My earlier suspicion blossomed. “You didn’t happen to talk to him recently?”
There was a pause. “I talked to him about a week ago.”
I turned as Rhage darted in front of the closet door, chasing what I hoped was some invisible insect. “Did you tell him where I was Friday night?”
“No,” Mom said immediately. “I know how you feel about him. I wouldn’t tell him where to find you.”
That was a weird way of answering the question, but then Mom asked carefully, “Did you talk him?”
Walking out of the closet, I placed the pants on the chair by the door. “Yes. For a couple of minutes.”
“And . . . and how did that go?”
“It was okay,” I answered hesitantly, not wanting to give her any false hope that Brock and I were suddenly going to reconnect and become best friends forever. “Do you know why he was here?”
“So you guys talked and it was okay?” she asked instead. “Jillian, this is the first time you talked to him in how many years?”
“A lot of years, but do—”
“I’m sure it was more than okay,” she said. “I’m sure that there was probably a little part of you relieved to have actually spoken to him?”
I started to tell her “hell no,” but was there a part of me that was relieved? I wasn’t sure. What did I have to be relieved over?
“Honey, I know this is an old conversation, but you two were so close. From the moment your father brought him into the house, you were his little shadow. You thought the world of him at one point, and I know he still thinks that of you,” she said, and my free hand clenched into a ball so tight my knuckles ached. “So talking to him had to be more than okay. You were that friend to him, Jilly, and because of that, perhaps one day, you two will find your way back to each other.”
I sucked in a shallow breath, reminded of another person saying the same thing to me. “I’m not that friend anymore, Mom. It’s not like that. It will never be like that.”
“Maybe not, but the future isn’t written in stone.”
This was not what I wanted to talk about and this conversation was pointless, because I didn’t plan on seeing him again. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”
Mom sighed, and it was a sigh of someone who was worried and not annoyed. “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Hanging up the phone, I sat on the edge of my bed and found my mind wandering once more into places I’d rather it not, but it was something Mom had said—something that my friend Katie had also said to me hours before every aspect of my life had changed.
“You’re that friend, Jillian.”
I felt like that wasn’t really something I needed pointed out, but I stayed quiet as I listened to Katie Barbara break down the last decade of my life with the wisdom only a psychic stripper could lay upon you.
“You’re the friend who’s always there, no matter what. Even if you don’t want to be there, you’re still there.” She pointed the strip of extra-crispy bacon in my direction. “You’re so that friend.”
I glanced down at my scrambled eggs and sighed. How had this conversation even come up, because if I was in the possession of a Time-Turner, I would so go back and stop this from being the topic.
Beside me, Abby Ramsey shifted forward, dropping her elbows onto the table. I lifted my gaze, searching for the waitress. This would be a great time for her to ask if we wanted our checks. Problem was it was Saturday morning at IHOP and the place was . . . well, hopping.
Katie bit into her strip of bacon, which had actually been the last piece of bacon she’d swiped off my plate. “Like this weekend, for example. You haven’t been coming home dur
ing the summer. Not really, and you only have a couple of more weeks before your fall semester starts, right? But you’re here today.”
I started to defend myself, but Abby spoke up. “Katie, she didn’t leave Shepherd just for him.”
Well . . .
Sitting back against the booth, I kept my mouth shut. Of course Abby would defend me. I was closer to her than I was to Katie. Abby and I had first met years ago at a book signing, and our mutual love of reading had spawned what I like to think was a pretty epic friendship, considering there was a ten year gap between us.
But love of books knew no age.
Growing up, I’d always known of Katie. Even in a city as populated as Philadelphia and its surrounding suburbs, everyone knew Katie. And it really wasn’t because she was a stripper at the club across from the bar called Mona’s. It also wasn’t because she claimed to be psychic, a side effect of falling off a slippery pole.
It was just that Katie was a friend of everyone. I didn’t think there was a person out there that Katie hadn’t befriended at some point.
But right then I was kind of wishing I hadn’t agreed to this breakfast when I’d told Abby I’d be coming up for the weekend.
“You know damn well that’s why she’s here,” Katie retorted, finishing off the slice of bacon before flipping thick blonde hair over her shoulder. “He’s the only thing that brings her back here at a snap of a finger.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s the only thing,” I reasoned, picking up my glass of soda. “I came home last month.”
“For the Fourth of July,” she returned.
Abby’s sigh was nearly swallowed by the sip of coffee she took. “I think what Katie is trying to say—”
“She knows what I’m saying.” Katie slid the sleeve of her neon purple shirt back up her shoulder. Her bright, ocean-colored eyes met mine. “He treats her like a little sister/slave. He’s not worth it. Not yet.”
Every part of me stilled and then stiffened. Muscles along my back locked up. Skin prickled like a swarm of fire ants. I was a pretty level-headed person. So much so that when I died, I was pretty sure that “calm and collected” would be etched into my gravestone, but nothing, nothing made my head want to spin three-hundred-and-sixty degrees quicker than someone talking smack about him.
“Don’t say that about Brock.” My voice was cool, but fire was sparking deep in my belly.
“He’s a grown adult.” Katie shrugged a shoulder, ignoring my warning. “And he’s making his own decisions. Has been for as long as all of us remember, and you’ve been his little shadow.”
“Well, it sounds kind of pathetic when you say it like that.” I placed my glass back on the table before it accidentally slipped out of my fingers, and my epitaph changed to “ill-tempered and impulsive.”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
My mouth dropped open. Everyone knew Katie could be as blunt as a two by four, but Jesus, that was a little unnecessary. “Katie,” I said, eyes wide.
“You went grocery shopping for him,” she pointed out.
I knew the time she was talking about. Roughly a year and a half ago. “He could barely move,” I protested.
“You did his laundry,” she continued, and the bright purple shirt slipped off her shoulder.
I gaped at her. “He’d had surgery on his chest wall muscle!”
“You actually cleaned his apartment for him,” Katie finished with a clap of her hands. “And who does that? Like, I don’t have a single friend, not even a special friend, who would clean my apartment. You are that friend.”
I snapped my mouth shut. “Maybe you need better friends.”
Katie tilted her head to the side and raised her brows.
“What Katie is trying to say is that you’ve always been there for Brock. You’ve gone out of your way to be there for him,” Abby tried again, and this time Katie didn’t interrupt her. “And he’s . . .”
Abby didn’t finish.
She didn’t have to.
Because she was too nice and Brock was just . . . well, he was Brock.
I drew in a deep breath as I met Katie’s stare. “I did those things for him because he was really injured, and I was just helping him.”
“And he’s all better now.” Katie tugged the sleeve of her shirt up again. “Next weekend is his big return to the MMA scene.”
My stomach knotted, like it did every time I thought about his upcoming fight. He’d been training for his big comeback since the moment the doctor cleared him to return to the cage—the Octagon.
It would be okay though.
Because my father wouldn’t have backed Brock if he thought for a second he wasn’t ready. Not when my father was the Andrew Lima, a ju-jitsu and mixed martial arts expert.
Dad had discovered Brock when he was just a teen, fourteen years old. Brock had a natural talent when it came to mimicking moves. When he was younger, every kick, submission hold, and skill had been self-taught.
I was eight years old when my father brought him into the Lima fold—into our family—and under my father’s tutelage, Brock quickly became the next big thing once he was old enough to compete. Everyone wanted him. Endorsements. Pay-Per-View fights. He was on his way up, and I’d been so happy for him, because Brock hadn’t had an easy life up to that point, and no one—no one—deserved it more than him.
Almost two years ago, while he was working with one of the new recruits at the Academy’s main facilities in the city, he’d suffered a pectoralis major tendon rupture, a serious tear of the interior muscle of the chest. The horror and helplessness I’d felt when it had happened resurfaced. It took no effort to see him falling to his knees, clutching at his chest as pain etched into his striking features. It had been so bad he’d been rushed into surgery, but with rest and rehab, he’d been able to return to top fighting form.
Shaking my head, I refocused on the present. “I did those things for him because he’s my friend. I’d do them for any of my friends.”
Katie looked like she wanted to say more, but decided against it, and I shifted uncomfortably on my seat. Katie never held back, so if she was holding back now, it couldn’t be good.
Then again, none of my friends really got the whole Brock situation, and not a single one of them thought it was a good thing.
I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. “And Brock did ask me to come home this weekend. He wants to go out to dinner tonight, just him and me—an early celebration in honor of his fight next week since he leaves tomorrow night with my dad to train there.”
Abby’s eyes widened. “What? You’re just now telling us this?”
Biting down on my lip to stop myself from grinning, I shrugged. “I really didn’t get the chance to explain since someone—” I paused, shooting Katie a pointed look. “—has been lecturing me for the last thirty minutes.”
“I am not ashamed of this piece of knowledge,” Katie replied.
“Is this a date?” Abby demanded.
My stomach tumbled again. A date? Oh God, just thinking about tonight like it was a date made me want to laugh and vomit at the same time, and that would be rather impressive . . . and gross. “It’s not really a date. I mean, he didn’t call it a date, but it is just us.”
Abby opened her mouth and then looked over at Katie. I waited, knowing that whatever Katie was about to say, I probably didn’t want to hear it.
Katie plopped her arms down on the table, rattling the silverware. “If you don’t know if it’s a date, it’s not a date.”
The grin I’d been fighting slipped away. “I don’t think it’s a date, Katie.”
She sighed heavily. “Sometimes I really hate that man.”
I deflated like a balloon that had been pricked. Katie didn’t understand. Time to change the subject. I glanced over at Abby. “Are you and Colton still planning to go to the Poconos for your anniversary?”
“Yep. Next weekend. I can’t believe it’s already been two years.” Her lips curved up into a pretty smi
le.
“Time for you to start popping out some babies,” advised Katie.
Abby’s eyes widened. “I don’t know about that.”
I grinned, thinking a little. Abby and Colton baby would be adorable. I was absolutely fascinated with how the two had reconnected. It was like something straight out of the romance books Abby edited for a living. They’d known each other in high school. Abby had innocently crushed on Colton even though she’d married her high-school sweetheart, but her husband had sadly passed away. Then, years later, Abby had run into Colton after witnessing a murder—a freaking murder that Colton ended up investigating. The odds! Seriously.
“What about you?” queried Abby, her stare pointed. “When are you going to give up the pole and have some kids?”
“Give up the pole?” Katie tipped her head back and laughed. “If and when I have kids, that doesn’t mean I’ve got to give up dancing.”
I pressed my lips together to stop the giggle building in the back of my throat as I pictured a pregnant Katie working the pole. If anyone would strip while obviously pregnant, it would be Katie. She’d work it, belly and all.
The waitress finally arrived with our checks and we headed out into the bright August morning sun. As I pulled the sunglasses off my head and over my eyes, I promised Katie I would try to visit her tonight at the club.
I always promised her that.
I never went to the club she worked at.
Not because I had anything against strip clubs. I just knew, knowing my luck, I would run into a family member and that would be about seven different kinds of awkward.
My family was so large, you couldn’t throw a rock and not hit a Lima. Cousins and nephews and nieces, and—oh God—uncles were literally everywhere. It was like a higher being threw up, spraying Limas all over the city of Philadelphia. Once, I went to a gyno appointment and my uncle Julio was in the damn waiting room with his much, much younger wife.
Younger, as in Nicole was only six years older than me. Brock’s age. She was a ring-card girl. It was love at first booty shorts and bikini top sight. Nicole was super sweet. Super hot. And super pregnant. Like, every time I saw her, she was pregnant again. During Christmas I always managed to almost forget one of their kids. They had an entire litter. Julio was one of the middle brothers, younger than my father, and in his early forties, so you’d figure at some point he’d run out of active sperm.