I shouldn’t be surprised I’m not in his circle of trust anymore. That’s likely my fault. I’m the one who put that distance in our friendship once I saw him with Kira.
Leo lets out a squawk, and I bounce him in my arms. What does this thing with Maverick matter anyway? So we’re not closeanymore. I have more important things to worry about. Namely, how I’m going to afford diapers. “And he doesn’t care that I’m staying here?”
Paige glances away as she shrugs. “Frankly, he doesn’t know, but I’m guessing he won’t care. I’m supposed to rent it out once it gets fully furnished. But the furniture store just told me the bed is backordered and won’t be here for a month and a half. So if I have to do some girl math, I figure that gives you six weeks to enjoy some luxury living before you have to cram into Beau’s stinky old camper.”
Great. Now I’m squatting.
I rub my throbbing temple. “Thank you. As long as this doesn’t get me arrested.”
She wiggles her brows. “I kinda always thought you’d be into handcuffs.”
We both laugh.
I guess this won’t be so bad.
8
MAVERICK
With gritted teeth,I drag my carry-on down the concourse. A mind-numbing throb in the back of my head matches the beat of my uneven stride. I pull my baseball cap lower. The last thing I want right now is to run into a fan. By the time I reach my Uber, I’m on the verge of puking, so I let my driver haul my shit into the trunk. I hand him the address and slouch in the back seat, grateful for the silence.
Technically, I should be fine as long as I don’t make any quick movements. I keep telling myself that as I pop an extra-strength ibuprofen. My doctor prescribed oxycodone to control the pain, but I’ve had too many teammates have trouble getting off that stuff after an injury, so I’d rather not go that route.
I should ice the hell out of my neck and shoulder tonight, except I left my ice packs in New York. I’m so fucking tired that I really don’t care. I’m having a hard time giving a shit about anything right now.
My phone trills with several texts. I glance at the screen and see an all-caps message from my agent Vance.YOU HAVE FIVE WEEKS. MAKE THEM COUNT.
Like I got injured for shits and giggles.
I flick off the ringer.
The drive from Austin takes about forty minutes, and as we pass the turnoff to the ranch, I let out a relieved breath. I love my family, but right now, I need to be alone. I have a lot of crap to figure out.
I have a whole list of problems right now. Namely, what the fuck am I going to do about my career?
And this one shouldn’t be as important, except it rises to the top of the list—no pun intended—but why the fuck doesn’t my dick work?
Since puberty, I’ve literally never woken up without wood, but since my injury, my dick is DOA.
My doctor says I’m lucky I can walk—that I’m a medical miracle—and that’s supposed to be enough for now. He says if I get rest, it’ll help, but I can’t fucking sleep in New York. My roommates are loud as hell, and when they’re not clowning around, the sounds of the city keep me awake.
I’ve tried everything—porn, cam girls, videos women have sent me over the years—and nothing gets my cock to perk up and take notice. The only thing I haven’t tried is a real woman, but things with Kira make me not wanna go there. I suppose if I can’t get off with my hand, then I’m shit out of luck.
Downtown Wild Heart is blessedly deserted at this hour. There are no cars on the street. It’s such a welcome departure from New York.
When we get to the condo, I groan as I attempt to extricate myself from the back seat. This is such bullshit. A few months ago, I could run a hundred meters in ten seconds and leap like a goddamn gazelle, and now I can barely pull myself off my ass. I guess I should be glad I don’t need a walker anymore.
After I thank my driver, I grab my small suitcase and roll it into the building. When I reach the elevators, I pull out theemail Paige sent me last fall with all the details. I’ve only seen photos of this place, but it seemed nice online. Certainly nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived before.
Once I get to the top floor, I pull out my keys and head to my penthouse, if you can call it that. My teammates in New York would probably laugh at the description.
I unlock the door, wheel my luggage inside, and flick on the hall light.
A heap of crap on the kitchen counter makes me do a double-take.
“Son of a bitch.” I grab my neck, the pain so sharp, I have to lean against the wall.
Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through the pain. When I’m sure I’m not gonna pass out, I survey the shit on my counter again. There’s an extra-large container of peanut butter, generic bread, and baby wipes next to a few paper plates with crumbs.
