Kristen Ashley - Games of the Heart

Clarisse didn’t reply. This was mostly because she was a girl and so, even though it was gross, it wasn’t lost on her that both her brother and her Dad were hot. And even if it could be lost on her, all her friends telling her how hot her brother was all the time would mean it wouldn’t be for long. And No was right, he looked a lot like Dad.

“Anyway,” No muttered, moving toward his guitar, “I hope he’s talkin’ to a woman. It was fucked up, the way it used to be. Mom always screamin’. Dad always pissed. His mouth always that weird tight ‘cause he was tryin’ to keep that crap from us. And now we’re not around much and he’s alone a lot. Be cool he wasn’t alone but instead with some babe who didn’t make his mouth that weird tight.” He picked up his guitar, sat on his bed and put it on his thighs before finishing, “And, if he’s got a hot babe, Dad won’t be up in our shit so much.”

At any other time, Clarisse would agree with this final statement.

Their Mom didn’t give much of a shit. Their Dad did, like, a lot, and sometimes it could be annoying.

But maybe some “hot babe” wouldn’t like her Dad spending Friday night with Clarisse and ice cream and scary movies. Maybe she’d want him spending Friday nights with her somewhere drinking martinis or…whatever.

Clarisse didn’t know what to think of this. The only thing she knew was that she didn’t like it much.

No started strumming and she focused on him.

No could watch some YouTube video with some geek explaining how to play “Stairway to Heaven” or whatever and do it over and over again for an hour and have the song down pat.

Now that, she thought, was totally cool.

And probably some random woman their Dad was dating would think what everyone thought, that No was cool.

But Clarisse didn’t have anything to make her cool. So some random woman their Dad was dating wouldn’t have anything to think about her.

No, she didn’t like this much.

Maybe she should give herself an awesome nickname and talk No into teaching her how to play drums or something.

No took her out of her thoughts when he announced, “It’s seven thirty, Rees. Dad’s gonna be hittin’ us both up to see we got our homework done. I already told him I need his help with shit. Do you have yours done?”

No. She did not.

Dang.

No read her like he always did and like the pain in the butt big brother he always was, he ordered quietly, “Better get on that, Reesee.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, turned on her foot and left the room.

She heard her father’s voice murmuring from the office. He was still talking to that woman.

Dang.

She heard her brother strumming his guitar. It was idle, he wasn’t into it yet, warming up, getting the feel. Still, it sounded good.

Dang.

She walked to her room and shut the door.

Once there, she stopped and looked around. After her Dad moved out of their old place and bought this house, he made certain sure she had the room she wanted. She picked the paint and furniture and everything.

Yellows and blues and butterflies and vampire posters.

She was going to be fifteen in a few weeks.

Butterflies and vampires.

She totally needed a new look.

She spent the next fifteen minutes taking down the vampire posters, scratching off the gum on the backs of the posters and the walls, rolling them up and stowing them in her closet.

Her head was in her closet when there came a knock at her door.

She pulled her head out just as her Dad walked in and stopped.

“Homework?” he asked.

“Uh…not quite.”

He sighed.

She hated it when he did that and these days, with her, for some reason it seemed she made him do it a lot.

“Desk, Reesee,” he ordered quietly.

It was her turn to sigh.

He stood there, crossing his arms on his chest, waiting.

She walked to her desk and pulled out her books.

She felt her Dad’s hand wrap light around the side of her neck about a second before she felt his lips brush the top of her hair.

“Most beautiful girl in the world,” he muttered there then let her go and she felt him leave.

If he had a hot babe, would he still think she was the most beautiful girl in the world?

Probably not.

Dang.

She looked over her shoulder at the clock by her bed.

It was ten to eight. Dad never left it that late to check to see they had their homework done.

But he’d been busy on the phone with that woman so he was late to check.

Clarisse turned back to her books thinking, dang.

On his back in his bed in the dark, his eyes pointed unseeing at the ceiling, his dick hard, his phone to his ear, he listened to Dusty come.

Then he waited a few seconds while listening to her breathe.

Then he asked softly, “You good?”

To which he got back a breathy, “Oh yeah, honey.”

He smiled into the dark.

Then, still breathy, he heard her whisper, “You’re good at that.”

She meant phone sex.

“Findin’, when it comes to you, I got a vivid imagination.”

He listened to her soft, sexy, musical laugh.

“Got work tomorrow, Angel, gotta let you go,” he whispered.

“What about you?” she whispered back.

“My turn next time.”

“You’re on.”

He smiled into the dark again.

She was over a thousand miles away but still, something to look forward to.

“You sleep good,” he ordered.

“Oh I’ll do that,” she replied, he could hear the smile in her voice and he was pleased as fuck it was him who put it there and how he did it.

“’Night gorgeous,” she called softly.

“’Night Angel. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Awesome,” she whispered.

He chuckled, whispered back, “Later,” got the same word in return and his thumb found the button to disconnect.

Then he tossed his phone on the nightstand, rolled to his side, tagged a pillow and curled an arm around it.

It took the five minutes it took for his dick not to be hard for him to fall asleep.

But when he did, unconsciously, he did it smiling.

Tuesday morning…

Beau Lebrec drove his pickup up the dirt lane to Dusty’s place.

A place that used to be his place.

He could see the ranch-style house, the small, two stall barn where she kept her two horses and the same size shed where she made her pottery and kept her kilns. And that was all he could see. This was because his woman owned twenty acres sandwiched between two huge-ass ranches so the rest of what he could see was nothing but land.

Why she needed that land, he had no clue. She didn’t take care of it. She paid some Mexican to do it. She told him her horses needed room to roam and he reckoned this was true since her ass was in a saddle on one every day. She said it was her workout.

Why she needed another work out, he also had no clue. She did yoga and pilates, going into town to take classes twice a week and having a fuckload of equipment at home in one of her three bedrooms. She also went to some crazy-ass class she called a “boot camp”. She came back from this red-faced and sweating but grinning like an idiot then bitching all the next day that her muscles hurt. Though, when she bitched, she did it smiling like that was a good thing.

She did this shit with Jerra, her partner in crime. She said she did it so she could eat and drink whatever she wanted. And, fuck knew, Dusty Holliday ate and drank whatever she wanted. This was why, even with as busy as she always was, at her classes, with her horses, on her horses, digging in all her pots (she might not take care of her land but she liked to be outside with her flowers) and working in the shed, she never could shift that extra ten pounds she carried. He kept telling her to cut back on the tequila and chocolate. At first, she just smiled at him. Later, her eyes would cut to him and she’d tell him to go fuck himself.

Not nice.

He parked and got out, hearing her music coming from the shed. This did not mean she was out there working. She’d wander into the house and leave the music blaring from the shed. Again, he had no clue how she could create the pieces she created with rock and country blasting around her. He wasn’t into that shit but even he could see Dusty’s pottery was the fucking bomb. Then again, it would be with the price tags she put on it. But beauty like that, he thought, didn’t get inspired by rock ‘n’ roll and country.

He started with the house and the minute he entered he knew Yolanda had been there recently. Dusty did not give one shit about the state she kept her house in or how she took care of her things. He’d never met a woman who made such a mess and didn’t give a fuck about it. The only thing that got up her nose was the state of the kitchen. When she cooked, she made a God awful mess and she might leave that mess overnight but she’d clean it up first thing the next day. And she was always riding his ass to put his dishes in the dishwasher and to wipe down the counters.

He didn’t get it. If she didn’t have Yolanda coming in once a week to clean and do laundry, their bedroom would be knee deep in clothes and shoes and she’d go buy underwear before she’d do laundry. But she’d pitch a fit if he made a sandwich and left crumbs on the counter.

This shit stuck in his craw when he was living with her even if, while living with her, he got to bang her. One could say Beau had more than his fair share of women and without a doubt Dusty was the best he ever had. No other even came close. Since she lost her mind and kicked his ass out, he’d thought about it and decided his woman was complicated and he could live with that.