Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

Colt’s body stills over mine as he says, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

My entire core clenches, feeling the emptiness that I need him to fill. I run my hands up along his sides marveling at the way his cut muscles create ridges and valleys.

“Oh, believe me, I am more than ready.” When he still doesn’t move, I say, “Colt, now.”

He hesitates a moment longer, and then he pushes into me, filling me so completely that there’s no room for anything else. I’m not even sure there’s space for air to fill my lungs. Nothing in my entire collection of vibrators could have possibly prepared me for this fullness, this feeling of being joined together with him, or the way it feels as he brushes his fingers over my nipple while he says, “I’m going to make you come so hard, they’ll hear you screaming in the suburbs.”

I close my eyes as I adjust to his size and the delicious sensation of him dragging his cock along my inner walls, and then pushing back into me, filling me as far as I can take him. “Yes. Please, Colt . . .” I groan out the pleading words.

I’m about to tell him how amazing it feels now that he’s finally inside me, but something is poking me in my side, a persistent nudging that won’t go away. I go to swat at it when I open my eyes back up and realize that I’m in Colt’s fancy SUV.

Fuck. It felt so real, just like it always does in my dreams.

My underwear is so damp I’m worried he’ll be able to smell my arousal. I’m so turned on that I just want to close my eyes and jump right back into the dream. But that poking at my side happens again, and I glance over to find Colt looking at me. “Hey . . . we’re home.”

“Okay,” I croak out because my throat is so thick with longing I can hardly speak.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I was just in the middle of a dream, is all.”

“Yeah, there was quite a bit of moaning in that dream,” he teases.

Shit, what is wrong with me—why did I have to say that? Why couldn’t I have just said my throat hurt or something? And as much as I try not to let it happen, I can feel the flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. He smirks at me like he knows exactly what I was dreaming about. It probably isn’t hard to figure out.

“So,” he says, “Walsh just texted, and he and Marissa have a babysitter for tonight so they’re going out to dinner, and they want to know if we want to meet up for drinks afterward? Can you make that work?”

He sounds so hopeful, and the fact that he wants me to go has me wanting to say yes. But the responsible part of me knows I shouldn’t. It’s been a long weekend of travel, and I should unpack. Plus, I have to work tomorrow morning, and 5:30 a.m. comes at the same time every day, no matter how late you stay up the night before.

You’d probably stay up reading anyway, my brain reminds me, because it knows all about my romance book addiction and is using it against me.

“I have to work tomorrow . . .” I don’t finish my sentence because I can’t make myself say no, even though I know I should.

“Come on, Jules. We won’t stay out too late. We need them to believe that we’re engaged, and I’m sure my fiancée would be too smart to let me go out on my own.”

Oh. So that hopeful note in his voice wasn’t because he wanted to spend more time with me, it’s so we can keep up appearances. I shake my head at my own hopeful stupidity.

What did you expect?

“So you’re saying that you’re not trustworthy enough to be out on your own without your ‘fiancée’”—I actually use air quotes around the word to emphasize our fake status, mostly because I need the reminder myself. He doesn’t seem to have much trouble remembering that this isn’t real—“and you need me there to babysit you?”

“No, I need you there to protect me from the women who will be all over me if you’re not around.” The blasé way he says this, as if he knows women will flock to him even though they know he’s engaged . . . it pisses me off. I don’t know why. I’m not sure if I’m angry that other women would move in on “my man,” or if I’m pissed on his behalf that having to fight off women constantly is his norm. Or am I just jealous?

That’s when it hits me: this is the dynamic that he created and has played into since he was a nineteen-year-old rookie with a broken heart. He’s chosen to remain single; he’s flaunted the many women and his party persona very publicly. And he’s done it all to show Cheri and Gabriel that—whether it was true or not—he didn’t want what they had.

Now that I understand his past, everything about his fuck-boy status makes a lot more sense. But what I still don’t know is whether he actually didn’t want to be tied down, or if it was a defense mechanism to protect his heart and make it seem like he was much happier this way.

“I don’t really feel like going out,” I say, wanting to retreat to my bedroom, take care of this ache between my legs that’s left over from my dream, and then sleep until tomorrow morning. I look out the window at the back door, wanting to get inside and away from him so I can figure out what I’m feeling . . . because suddenly, I’m sad. Sad for him, and sad that I had to go and fall for someone who doesn’t even want to have a real conversation about what’s happening between us, because he doesn’t think we’re “ready” for a real conversation, whatever that means. “It’s been a long weekend.”

“Tink.” He reaches across, sliding his hand around the back of my neck and gripping me possessively. I like it, and the way his thumb strokes my jaw, more than I should. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. I just don’t know what I did.”

“I’m just tired.” I don’t want to talk about my feelings when I’m so unsure of them myself.

“You just slept for two hours,” he says, using his fingers around the base of my skull to turn my head so I’m facing him. He eyes me like he’s trying very hard to understand me, and still can’t. Which is fine. Half the time, I don’t understand myself.

I shrug and say, “And yet I’m still tired.”

“Are you getting sick?” The concern in his voice about does me in. I need to get out of here.

I reach over for the door handle. “No, I just . . .  I need to go inside.”

Hopping out of the car, I rush up the stairs to the back door, leaving him to bring our stuff inside.

Two hours later, I’m standing in my closet, putting the finishing touches on the new bra I just created. Now that I’ve had some time to let my emotions decompress, and to process this weekend while also working on something creative, I’m feeling centered again.

What’s happening between us still feels nebulous and uncertain, but at least I’ve figured out what he meant on that dock. He said that we both had work to do—me to learn to trust him, and him to show me he was trustworthy. That’s not something you say to someone you’re just fake dating. That’s something you say to someone you want to build something with. But the problem isn’t really that I don’t trust him. It’s that I don’t trust me. And that’s the part I don’t know how to get over.

As I tuck the sewing machine back down into its cabinet, there’s knocking on my bedroom door. I half expected it, and it still takes me by surprise.

When I open the door, he’s standing there in jeans and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows so that some of his tattoos peek out. He looks so delicious I have to gulp down my sigh.

“I’m not going out without you.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Why not?”

He reaches up and grips the doorframe as he leans in closer. “Because I don’t want to. I want to be wherever you are, and I’m sorry if I made it sound like I only wanted you to come out to make this relationship look real. I was feeling a little desperate to say whatever would get you to hang out with me, and obviously that was not it.”

I hug myself a little tighter, fighting off the flutters awakening in my stomach. “How do I know this isn’t the thing you’re saying now because you’re desperate for me to come out with you tonight?”

“I don’t really care if we go out, Jules. But after spending the weekend with you, I don’t want to be without you.”

I try to keep my walls up, to keep myself safe, but when he says things like that, it’s harder and harder to remember why I need those walls to begin with.

“What if I want to stay home?”

“Then I’ll stay with you.”

I glance over at the clock on my nightstand and am surprised to find that it’s not quite eight o’clock. “Fine, I’ll go. But I need to change.”

He bends down and swoops me over his shoulder so quick I barely have time to shriek before he’s walking through the door to my bathroom and heading toward my closet.

“Colt, stop.”

He freezes.

“I can change by myself.”

“What is it about this closet that makes it so secretive, huh?” he asks. “Does it turn into a sex dungeon or something?”

I laugh. “What in the world would a virgin need a sex dungeon for?”

He pulls me down, letting my body slide along his until my feet meet the floor. His voice is even deeper and more gravelly than normal when he says, “Why do you keep emphasizing the fact that you’re a virgin?”

I reach up and hook my finger into the space above the top button on his shirt. “Because I still need someone to help me out with that situation.”

Leaning forward, he kisses my forehead. “We can revisit this when you have a better answer.”

Then he’s turning me toward my closet, and he smacks my ass to push me through the door, telling me I have fifteen minutes to get ready.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Audrey squeals when Colt and I slide into the booth at the Neon Cactus.

“Why’s that?” I ask, feigning an air of nonchalance that I certainly don’t feel. Obviously, I know everyone sitting at this table: my sister and Drew, Zach and Ashleigh, and Walsh and Marissa. But there’s something about being here with other well-established couples, when this thing with Colt and me has only started to feel real recently. Zach and Ashleigh have only been together since right before Christmas, but she moved in with him weeks after they met because she was relocating from Seattle to Boston, and he insisted it didn’t make sense for her to get her own place.

“Because you have to work tomorrow morning,” Audrey says.

“So do you.” I shrug.

“Yeah, but I’ll stroll into the office whenever I feel like it, which will probably be about three or four hours after you leave for work.”

“Must be nice,” I say with a little roll of my eyes. Then again, I’m often home long before Audrey finishes up for the day. “I’ll be fine. It’s just one night. Plus, we’re starting a little late tomorrow because we’re waiting on a delivery.”

“How was Montreal?” Walsh asks.

I look at Colt, waiting for him to respond. He just shrugs, still looking at me, and says, “It was interesting.”

They pepper us with questions about what it was like for me to meet Colt’s family for the first time, and it’s a relief when the waitress comes over to take our drink orders. Colt and I are both being purposefully evasive, and I’m half-afraid someone’s going to call us on it.

By the time we’re on our second round of drinks, the conversation has shifted to the upcoming series against Carolina. Colt’s lazily tracing figure eights on my bare thigh when Walsh starts going through the list of players, and what their strengths and weaknesses are.

Colt slides out of the booth and holds his hand out to me. “Let’s go play pool.”

“I don’t really play pool,” I tell him, but I take his hand and let him pull me up to standing.

He dips his head and says, “I’ll teach you.” When he sees my doubtful look, he adds, “I think we established that it’s good for you to try new things. Look how much fun you had golfing.”

“That wasn’t exactly golfing.” I laugh as we walk over to the pool tables in the back. Predictably, most of them are empty on this Sunday night. “It was more like hitting balls at an outdoor party.”

“Well, this won’t exactly be pool either, because I’m going to be playing on both teams.”

“So, speaking of trying new things,” I say, my lips pursing. “Maybe tonight should be the night I try having more than two drinks.”

“You think you should be making that decision when you’re already drinking?”

“Colt, I’ve only had two. And I don’t have to get up as early tomorrow as normal. Plus, there’s virtually no one here except our friends. And there are no twenty-four-hour wedding chapels nearby.”

“So those are your reasons to try drinking again?”

“No, those are my counterarguments. I’ve spent too many years letting one night of bad decisions affect my life. I just want to see what it’s like to be buzzed when I know I’m safe.”

“I’m a little nervous about you making this decision less than twenty-four hours after I made the offer, and with two drinks already in you.”

I stop in front of the rack of cue sticks lined up on the wall. Turning to look at him, I say, “I’m going to have a couple more drinks. Are you going to make sure I’m safe and don’t make any bad decisions, or not?”

“I’m always going to make sure you only make good decisions, Tink.”

I grab a pool cue off the wall, but Colt’s hand covers mine. “That one’s way too short for you. You need something longer.”

Lifting my margarita, I say, “That’s what she said,” before taking a sip.

His hand is on my hip as he steps in so close I have to look up to see his face, and now my old-fashioned glass with the salt rim rests along his pecs. “Trust me, no one’s ever said that to me.”

I feel my throat bob as I swallow down the longing with the sweet, tangy margarita. “Those women just had more of a filter than I do.”

“Bullshit, Tink.” Taking my drink, he sets it on the edge of the pool table before bringing his hand to the back of my head and threading his fingers into my hair. “You might have everyone else fooled, but no one has a stronger filter than you do. And it’s the things you don’t say that have me most curious.”

Goddamnit, why does he always have to see me?

Trying to change the subject, I bat my eyelashes at him. “So, how long of a stick do I need, then?”

He presses his lips together to hold in his smile and raises an eyebrow. “I guess we’ll find out.” Turning me so I’m facing the wall where the pool cues are hung, he lifts one out of the stand and holds it up to me. “This will do.”

Then he takes one for himself, and I barely have a chance to grab my margarita before he pulls me over to the table in the back corner. The only light is the long one hanging over the table, and the angled shades ensure it only illuminates the green felt and barely anything beyond. We’re shrouded in darkness back here, and I’m certain that was his intention.

He sets our cue sticks on the table and then goes about racking the balls, the same way I used to see my dad do it at the bar down the street from our house. Audrey and I spent a lot of time there with him when Mom was sick, because of course that’s where an alcoholic takes two pre-teen girls on a Saturday afternoon. I never really enjoyed playing pool, but I’m a boss at darts.

Once the balls are racked, Colt steps up behind me, his feet spread on either side of mine. His hand lands on my hip, gripping it possessively—it feels like he’s always looking for a way to hold on to me.

That’s just wishful thinking, I remind myself. Because every time he’s not holding on to me, he’s pushing me away. It’s like he can’t make up his mind. We’re drawn to each other, no doubt, but he’s clearly unwilling to do anything about it because of some stupid promise he made to my brother. I have half a mind to just ask Jameson if he’d actually care if anything was happening between us, but I don’t want to potentially damage their friendship. That’s a conversation they need to have, when and if Colt’s ready to have it.

“I’m going to grab myself another drink before we start.” Colt’s words flow into my hair, sending a shiver down my neck and spine. “Do you want one?”

“Yeah. Let’s try the coconut margarita this time.”

“Sounds good. And I’ll make sure you don’t do anything crazy after drinking it.”

The only crazy things I want to do are with you.

“We’re stopping at four, no matter what.” I can remember how four drinks felt. I was happily buzzed at that point. But the bad decisions started right after that, because once I hit four, I felt like I should keep going, and going hard.

“No matter what.” He nods his agreement. “Let me go get us another round, and you can practice taking some shots with this white ball.” Reaching out, he picks it up off the table, tossing it in the air and catching it again. “I’ll leave the rack on the balls, so you don’t mess them up.”

When he heads to the bar, I glance over at the table where our friends are sitting, and Audrey is staring at me. Then she takes her phone out of her bag, taps it a few times, and mine buzzes in my pocket.

Audrey

You good?

Jules

I’m great, why?

Audrey

This is seeming less and less fake each time I see you together.

Jules

You want my honest response?

Audrey

Always.

Jules

It’s feeling less and less fake the more time we spend together.

Audrey

Are you sleeping with him?

I can feel the alcohol coursing through my blood. Not enough that I’m drunk, but enough that my filter is fading fast. It’s the only reason I’m honest with her.

Jules

Not yet.

Audrey

Are you sure this is the path you want to go down with him?

I barely stop myself from making a joke about going down on him.

Jules

We’ll see.

Audrey’s gaze flicks over to the bar, then back to her phone.

Audrey

Are you having a third drink?

She knows about my two-drink limit, and it’s the same one she has. Not because she’s had a bad drinking experience like I have, but because with our family history, she doesn’t want to tempt fate.

Jules

Yeah. Colt said he’d make sure I’m safe and don’t make any bad decisions if I wanted to have more than two, and I’m taking him up on the offer.

Audrey

Who’s going to keep you safe from HIM???

Jules

Trust me, I’m plenty safe from him. He’s got an iron will and finds it way too easy to resist me.

Audrey

I trust you, but this feels like playing with fire.

I glance up to give her a reassuring look, but Colt’s between us as he walks toward me with a margarita for each of us in his hands.

Jules

I promise you, everything is going to be fine.