Game Changer (24 page)

The nickname made her heart squeeze with affection. Maybe her friend Brandon was still inside the intense, agitated man she saw before her. “It's not like my chest is nothing but smooth, creamy skin. There are big scars and discoloration. And no nipples. It doesn't look right. Like a person without a belly button.”

“Big flippin' deal hashtag yawn. Hashtag get over yourself.”

“Are we going to talk in hashtags from now on or are you just mentally tweeting this conversation?”

Her joke evaporated into the ensuing silence as Brandon stood and dropped his pants, revealing tight black boxer briefs that filled her laptop screen. His right leg was covered with the black- and-gray sleeve of his prosthesis. “Get brave, Johnson. Remember the contract you made with yourself on that napkin. You and I both signed it. No more fears, no holding back.”

Then his shirt was off and her tablet screen was overtaken by rippling muscles and tanned flesh, though she didn't see what being shirtless had to do with him showing her his amputation scars. He was the best looking man she'd ever seen and certainly ever slept with, the fittest and finest. There was absolutely nothing sexual about their relationship, which she needed to keep repeating to herself because the sight of his body only served to remind her, once again, that she was a woman where it mattered—in her mind, in her heart, between her thighs, and in every cell of her body—because, goddamn, he looked like sex on a stick.

He rubbed a hand over his abdominals, showing his body off to her, and her whole nervous system flared to life in a way not so dissimilar to her finger on her clit. Absolutely electric.

Without a word, ignoring that she was gaping at him, he sat down again and worked the fabric sleeve off his leg. “Let me see some skin, Harper,” he said without looking at the camera as he worked. “You want to get over this baseless fear then you have to pop that cherry.”

She didn't think she'd ever heard him say anything so crass, hadn't even known he was capable of it, he was such a smooth operator. Except today he wasn't. Not at all. He'd been pushing her all week, aggressively. His words were all coming out as growls and his eyes glinted with some emotion she couldn't name. He was goading her tonight to show him her naked body, flaunting his physique, using rough language and an even rougher tone. It was like a drug, a high—disorienting, yet arousing. How could they be platonic friends when this newly revealed side of his personality filled her with an all-consuming need?

Regardless of all that, he was right. Revealing her new body was a lot like losing a kind of virginity. And she had the chance to lose it to her best friend.

Seeing her naked would freak him out and make her self-conscious all over again because, whatever his reaction, it wasn't going to be right. She didn't even know what the right reaction was, so how could he? Was it indifference? Awe at her inner strength, a term that made her gag because it was so condescending? Whatever it was, one thing was sure: this was going to kill the sexual undercurrent of their conversation better than a bucket of ice water would have because there was nothing remotely attractive about her slightly concaved, scarred, surfboard of a chest. That, right there, was reason enough for her to pop that cherry. If stripping for him would protect what had become the most important relationship in her life, then that's what she needed to do.

While he was preoccupied with removing his prosthesis, Harper stood. With trembling hands and a queasy stomach, she took hold of her shirt hem and tugged it over her head. And then she stood still and waited for him to notice her.

Brandon was too busy removing his prosthetic foot to register Harper's nudity right away. Instead, she watched him rub the end of his leg as though trying to erase the silvery scars and red crease marks left from the sleeve, then thrust it toward the camera, rotating the stump end. “There you have it, one gnarly transtibial—”

He did a double take at the camera and then his face turned to stone. He looked a long time. Not a word, his expression hard.

The vulnerability made her feel like a pillar of ash bracing for the threat of wind. Her throat constricted. She tensed her muscles against a shiver as a fresh flood of despair ripped through her.

She closed her eyes so she didn't have to look at the expressionless mask he wore. Instead, she visualized possible tattoos she could get to cover her scars, ones she'd seen online from women brave enough to share photographs of themselves. Lushly drawn peacocks in the colors of brilliant jewels, bright daisies and roses, red and gold dragons. Someday, she'd make her body beautiful like that, too, but she had to wait for her scars to shrink and her swelling to disappear.

There was no sound from the tablet speakers and she started to wonder if he'd left or ended the chat without her hearing the line go dead. He wouldn't reject her that utterly, would he? She peeled an eye open. He was still on his sofa, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin resting on his clasped fists, and he just sat there looking at her, his mouth a thin, straight line.

Her eyes crowded with tears, but she willed them not to fall. She was sick and tired of crying. Still, she waited for some reaction. Anything. Into the vacuum of silence, she swallowed, then said, “I had really hot tits.”

He flinched at that and seemed to snap from his trance. His gaze slid up her neck and face, landing on her eyes. “Yes, you did.” He jutted his right leg forward. “And I had a really sexy leg.”

“I bet you did.”

A tear jarred loose from her cheek. With a sniff, she wrenched her face away and slid out of view, refusing to let him see her any more exposed than she already was.

“Hey! Come back here,” he demanded, his growling shout piercing the air with its harsh insistence. “And knock it off with that toxic bullshit.”

She held her place away from the camera and swiped her hands across her eyes, ridding them of tears. “I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't have to. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and that's an order. Get back over here.”

She considered shutting the laptop. She could end the painful confrontation right that moment, without another word. Because fuck Brandon Theroux and his gorgeous body and his face of stone. What did she care if he didn't like her hanging up on him? She had a right to protect her fragile confidence.

“Harper, please.” His voice was softer this time, pleading. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I made you do that and I'm sorry about my reaction. I just . . .”

She was sorry he'd pressured her to do that, too, and even sorrier that he regretted seeing her undressed. How humiliating.

She grabbed her shirt and pulled it on before she stepped back into the range of the camera lens. Her tears had stopped, but there was no masking her sorrow. “You remember what you said to me after Duke's party? About how I deserve to wait for a man who begs me to put the ball and chain on him. No one's ever going to do that, Brandon. I'm working on accepting that, but sometimes it's scary to be this alone and think it might be forever.”

He clutched his computer monitor, this thumbs fuzzing in the forefront of the screen. “That's not true. Not one bit of it is.”

She sunk onto the corner of the bed, ignoring his protest. “I'm okay with that most of the time, because I have to be. And the alternative is to be depressed and lonely day in and day out, which I don't want, because what was the point of having the surgery if I'm only going to be miserable? I'm happy with my choice, I really am. It's a weight off me that I didn't even know I was carrying around. But some nights are easier than others. And some nights, like this one, are positively black.”

He stuck his face up close to the camera. “Look at me.”

She indulged his request, meeting his hard gaze.

“You have no idea what I would give to be in Destiny Falls right this very minute. No fucking clue how badly I wish I could kick down your door and shake some sense into you.” His mouth screwed up and he threw himself back against the sofa, his eyes averted and his chest heaving from the effort of breathing.

Whatever he felt, it couldn't possibly match how badly she wished they'd never had this conversation—either of their conversations today. He'd been right earlier—the ring shopping was to blame. Her helping him pick out an engagement ring had messed with both of their minds.

“I wish you were here, too, because I could use a good shaking. And then, right after you shook some sense into me, I'd wind back and slap some sense into you for letting ring shopping screw you up and for being weirded out by my scars.”

This time, he looked directly into the camera. “I'm not weirded out.”

“Except that you are.”

He rolled his tongue along the inside of his lips as though he was choosing his next words carefully. “Those scars are a badge of pride you wear as a survivor, and you don't ever forget it. I just wish I were closer so I could help you get over feeling sorry for yourself. That's all that's bothering me.”

Right. Sure. But she was done battling him. Instead, she raised her hand and slapped the air in front of the camera, adding her best slapping sound effect to the gesture, as though her hand were connecting with his cheek.

“You know the Bomb Squad guys have a running bet about you slapping me, right?” The levity in his voice was forced, but at least he was trying. Maybe he was done battling with her, too.

Her shoulders relaxed as a little of the fight drained from her. “You're kidding.”

“They can't believe it hasn't happened yet, after all these years.”

The urge to laugh struck her, so she indulged it. “If they only knew how many times I'd fantasized about it.”

“If they only knew how many times I'd deserved it.”

“That, too. Hey, listen.” She stuck her face close to the camera and braced her hands on the monitor, mimicking the pose he'd struck only minutes earlier. “Today was an anomaly. I don't know what got into us, but I want you to know that I'm really lucky to have you as a friend. I couldn't imagine my life without you.”

“You don't have to imagine anything without me. I'll always be here for you. And since I can't come to you so we can slap and shake some sense into each other, you need to come to me. Pronto. You need to book a flight to Miami, right after we get done with this call. Any weekend, weekdays, whatever. I'll make it work on my end. It's past time for you to cross skydiving off your bliss list.”

Skydiving. A weekend with Brandon. Her insides twisted into knots. Since the moment he'd given her that skydiving gift certificate, dread and longing had been battling in her heart. She missed him every day. Video chatting, phone calls, and texts didn't even come close to being enough—which was exactly why she dreaded their next in-person meeting.

She'd make sure they stayed busy, so the most likely scenario was that the visit would go off without a hitch, especially if she took the prudent step of booking a hotel room instead of staying in his condo with him. The trouble was, doing so would be akin to admitting that they were failing as friends, that she couldn't keep her thoughts from straying outside the tenuous confines of their friend zone.

She couldn't put him off much longer, though. He'd given her a generous birthday gift and she needed to make use of it. Plus, she'd always wanted to go skydiving. The two of them would be fine. She was just being silly. “Okay. I'll make it happen.”

“Good. Now say good-bye to me and go make that flight reservation before you change your mind, and then go down to the bar or out with friends so I don't have to imagine you sitting in your apartment alone.”

He picked up his prosthesis and sleeve, and then started the process of donning them again, his eyes down, his expression one of deep concentration. The move felt dismissive, save for a telltale tightness in his jaw.

“All right, but I'm fine. I really am. I just had an off night, like you. I'll go down to Locks and hang out. Maybe I can hustle somebody in darts.”

He continued applying his prosthesis without looking up. “Everybody at Locks knows how good you are at darts. You don't have a prayer of hustling anyone there.”

“Maybe someone will take pity on a poor, boobless lady and play me anyway.” She had to squelch a cringe because she hadn't meant to bring up her flat chest again with him, but at least she'd done so with enough self-deprecation that he wouldn't be able to accuse her of spewing toxic bullshit. But he showed no reaction at all as he stood to make some final adjustments to his leg.

She looked away before she caught more than a glimpse of the black fabric of his underwear. Goddamn her traitorous libido. After all they'd been through, how was it possible that she still wanted him so badly that it took her breath away?

“Or maybe I won't wait until you teach me how to swagger and pick up strangers. Maybe I'll try my hand at it tonight.” That couldn't have sounded any less appealing to her after Brandon's cringe-worthy reaction to seeing her naked, but self-protection was a curious beast. She wanted him to hate that idea. She wanted him to react, to do
something.

But he merely put his pants on, his face out of range of the camera, and said, “First, send me your flight reservation info.”

So that was it, then. “Right.”

He resumed his seat, ducking in close to the camera once more, and flashed her a fatalistic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Good night, surfboard. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

***

The second that Harper exited the video chat screen, Brandon slammed his laptop closed and released a strangled shout through his gritted teeth. He knew her well enough to know she hadn't been serious about trying to pick up a stranger in the bar tonight. Instead, she'd been pushing him for a reaction, but he hadn't trusted himself to give her one. Not after he failed her with his response to her nudity.

The sight of her had rendered him speechless, breathless, and in so much pain for her. He hated that she'd had no choice but to disfigure her body like that that, and he hated even more that he'd let all those feelings show on his face. He'd
fucking let her know
how much it made his heart—no, his very soul—ache to see the evidence of all she'd gone through. What the hell was wrong with him? Nothing like this would've happened if he'd stayed in Destiny Falls. He could have been there for her in a real way. None of this video chat bullshit.

Rising, he backhanded a stack of magazines off his coffee table and prowled the length of the room.

Stupid effing television show. Going to Miami was supposed to free him from Harper's hold on his heart. It was supposed to elevate him as an advocate and inspiration for disabled vets. But he'd never felt more handcuffed to obligation, so far from where he was supposed to be. The one person he wanted to inspire more than anything was at home thousands of miles away, wallowing in self-consciousness and sadness, and he'd contributed to that with his terrible reaction when she'd showed him the most vulnerable part of herself.

She didn't think she was beautiful or desirable anymore, which was absolute garbage. What he wouldn't give to defy the miles between them, storm into her brick fortress, and prove to her otherwise.

He prowled through the condo, going over and over in his head how fucked up his life had become.

Before signing on to the show, Brandon would've dealt with his frustration by finding a hot chick—or two or three—and screwing her brains out. That sounded like exactly what he needed tonight, because he was long overdue. The last time he'd had sex was with Harper two months earlier, and he hadn't even been able to come that night—or make her come, for that matter. He hadn't even been able to stay hard for her. Maybe she really would have better luck with a stranger, even though the thought of that made him want to punch someone.

Maybe he'd have better luck with a stranger, too, someone who didn't have the same loaded history and the weight of expectations. But sex with a stranger wasn't an option for him for several more months, which left him with only one choice.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts for the number he needed. As the phone rang, he lifted the solitary framed photo from his mantle. The photograph had been taken at Duke's party sometime in the hours after Harper and he had scrawled the bliss list contract on the napkin. At the time the photo was taken, they'd already failed as lovers and recast themselves as friends, but the way she'd looked that day—the wild flow of her hair, that low-cut sundress, the light in her eyes—would remain seared in his memory forever. He growled in disgust, but bit off the last of it when Lucinda answered his call.

“Lucinda? It's Brandon Theroux.” He flattened the picture frame against the mantle so he wouldn't have to look at Harper's smile while he said, “I need a face-to-face with one of the contestants. Tonight. Can you help me arrange that?”

She didn't miss a beat. “Yes. Absolutely. Did you have a specific contestant in mind?”

Her lack of hesitation and easy reply probably meant he wasn't the first groom to make such a request. Made him wonder why he wasn't taking full advantage of his position on the show. His every spare moment or thought had been too full of Harper, Harper, Harper. What the hell had she done to him?

“I don't care.” He honestly didn't. For his purposes tonight, any one of the remaining five contestants would do. “Surprise me.”