Nothing but Trouble

* * *

“I know what you need?”

He looked into her small face, half covered in shadows. “What?”

She ran her small hands up his bare chest and rose onto the balls of her feet. “This.” She kissed the side of his neck. The hot, moist pull of her mouth on his skin slammed into his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. “You need this.” Her warm breath brushed across his throat, and he shuddered. His whole body was alive, every cell and pleas Nure receptor sensitive to her satin touch.

“Yes.” He raised his hands and tangled his fingers in her blond and red hair. He brought her head back and gazed into her lust-heavy blue eyes as he lowered his mouth. Down to her sweet, wet lips. She tasted good, like the pleasure he’d been missing in his life. Like sex. Like hot, hungry sex. The kind that ripped a man apart. The kind that left him battered and bloody and willing to die for more.

Her tongue slid into his mouth, slick and wanting. He fed from her long, hungry kisses as her hands slid over his body. Her fingers combed through the short hair on his chest. Touching him and leaving little trails of fire across his flesh.

He raised his head, gasping, and looked into her face, at her lips, pouty and wet, and her eyes, shining with desire. She stepped back and pulled her dress over her head. Except for a pair of white panties, she was naked beneath. He didn’t bother to check his response. To go easy. He went to that wild primal place beating in his chest and groin and he pushed her down onto the chaise. Her panties disappeared along with his clothes, and he lay down on her soft, warm body.

“Yes,” she whispered as he pulled back and drove into her. Her back arched and she smiled. “This is what you need.”

Mark’s eyes flew open and he stared up at his dark ceiling. The black blades of his fan disturbed the air and pushed it across his face. His heart pounded in his chest and his groin ached. Desire, both sharp and dull, pulled at his testicles and he slid his hands beneath the sheets just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming that part too. He laid his palm across his boxers and on top of an impressive hard-on. He sucked in a breath through his teeth at both the pleasure and the pain. His erection heated the cotton of his underwear and warmed his palm and he curled his fingers around the long, hard length of it. Because of an erotic dream about his little assistant, he was as hard as a steel club. He didn’t know whether to be alarmed, or to be horrified, or to fall to his knees on the side of the bed and praise Jesus.

Chelsea cracked open her eyes and winced as the morning light stabbed her corneas. Pain squeezed her forehead, and her mouth felt like she’d eaten socks. She stared into her sister’s face on the pillow next to hers, just like when they’d been kids. Had something happened? Where had they been the night before?

“Oh God,” she groaned. Karaoke at Ozzie’s Road-house flashed before her scratchy eyes, an excruciating memory of her and Bo belting out “Like a Virgin” and “I’m Too Sexy” at the tops of their lungs. There was only one person on the planet with a worse voice than Chelsea. Bo. Bo was worse, and Chelsea was shocked the crowd at Ozzie’s hadn’t tossed them outside.

She sat up and waited for the pounding in her head to dull before she swung her feet over the side of the bed. With her eyes half closed, she wandered down the hall and into the bathroom. The vinyl floor felt cool beneath her feet, and she stuck her mouth under the faucet and turned on the cold water. She drank like a camel, then rose to look at herself in the mirror. Black smudges circled her eyes and her hair stuck out on one side. She looked as good as she felt and reached for the Tylenol. She downed three Caplets and wandered back toward the bedroom.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Chelsea stopped and peered down the hall at the half-naked man standing in the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Eating breakfast,” Jules answered as he poured milk over a bowl of cereal.

“Why are you eating breakfast here?”

“I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Bo called me last night and I met the two of you. I was the only one in any condition to drive.”

Chelsea retraced her steps, grabbed a terry-cloth robe from the back of the bathroom door, and continued toward the kitchen. Tiny bits and pieces were starting to come back to her. “Why are you still here?” she asked as she tied the fluffy belt around her waist.

“Since I live in Kent, and it was after two in the morning, you and your sister told me to crash in Bo’s room.” He reached into a drawer and grabbed a spoon.

It was too bad she was hungover and her eyes hurt because she really couldn’t fully appreciate Jules’s developed chest or each muscle of his six-pack. She pointed to his tight leather pants. “Are you trying to be Tom Jones or Slash?”

“We talked about this last night when you accused me of having a metrosexual meltdown.” He took a bite. “But again, I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You were totally wrecked.”

“I remember.” Unfortunately, more than just bits and pieces of the night was starting to come back. The singing. The drinking. The flirting with college boys and tourists.

Jules pointed his spoon at her. “You look like shit.”

“Perfect. I feel like shit.”

“Want some granola?”

“Maybe.” She moved past him and grabbed a Coke out of the refrigerator. There was nothing like a sugary Coke to help with a hangover. Unless it was a Quarter Pounder with cheese and extra greasy fries. Pure hangover heaven.

“How’s Bo this morning?”

Chelsea raised the Coke to her lips and chugged half the can. “Still asleep,” she said when she lowered the soda. She had a vague memory of her sister and Jules making out while Chelsea was busy flirting with a tourist from Ireland. She’d ask Bo about it later. She poured herself a bowl of cereal and joined Jules at the kitchen table.

“How are things working out with Bressler?” he asked.

“The same. He resents that I’m there and gives me crappy stuff to do.” She took a bite, and the crunching in her head was so loud she could hardly think past the pain. “A bunch of hockey players came to his house and drank beer yesterday.”

“You mentioned it last night, but you never said who showed up.”

Chelsea thought of all those huge men in one room. She had to admit that she’d been a little intimidated. Not so much by their size. Most people were taller than she and Bo, but she’d seen them play hockey. She’d seen them slam into the boards so hard, the wood and Plexiglas shook. She’d seen them slam into other players equally hard. Walking into that room y Sto esterday had been like walking into a wall of testosterone, but Chelsea was an actress. She’d auditioned in front of casting directors and producers, and she’d learned a long time ago to master her nerves. To appear calm and cool on the outside, no matter what she walked into. “There was the big Russian guy, Vlad,” she answered.

“Did he drop his pants?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d heard he doesn’t do that as much as he used to. Who else?” Jules took a bite and waited for her to answer.

“Let’s see. A guy with a black eye.” Within a few seconds of meeting the players, she’d discovered they really weren’t intimidating in person. They’d seemed like nice guys. Well, except for Mark. Although, surrounded by his teammates, Mark had been more relaxed. And yes, nicer. For him.

“There are quite a few guys with black eyes.”

“I think his name was Sam.”

“Sam Leclaire. He scored sixty-six goals this season. Ten of those—”

“Stop.” Chelsea held up one hand. “Spare me the stats.” She’d had to listen to him and Bo argue goals, points, and penalty minutes all the way home from Ozzie’s, and frankly, she’d wanted to shoot them both.

Jules laughed. “You remind me of Faith.”

“Who?”

“The owner of the Chinooks. When anyone starts talking stats, she goes all cross-eyed and zones out.”

Chelsea remembered now. The beautiful blond who’d been given a long, slow tongue kiss by the new captain, right in the middle of the Key, while an arena full of fans screamed and cheered them on. “Shouldn’t the owner of the team know about stats and stuff like that?” Chelsea tried another bite; this time she chewed slowly.

“She just inherited the team last April. Before that, she was like you and knew nothing about hockey. But she’s picked up the important stuff real fast.” He shrugged. “Now she has Ty to help her.”

“The captain?”

“Yeah. They’re in the Bahamas.”

“Doing what?”

Jules raised his green eyes from his cereal bowl and just looked at her.

“Oh.” She put the spoon down, unsure if her stomach could take more. “If she has Ty to help her out, are you worried about your job?”

He shook his head and shrugged again. “Not really. I think Ty’s going to take a job as a scout or have some role in player development, so she’ll still need an assistant. I’m going to talk to her about my role when she gets back.”

“When’s that?” Personally, she’d hate to think her job was up in the air. Well, any further in the air than it already was with Mark Bressler.

“Hopefully before the big celebration party.”

“There’s a celebration party?”

Jules sat back. “The cup celebration at the Four Seasons next month. The twenty-fourth maybe? It’s been put together in the past week, but I’m sure Bressler got an invitation. Or will shortly.”

Of course he hadn’t mentioned it.

“If you don’t get an invite, everyone is allowed one guest. You can go with Bo.”

Speaking of her sister, Bo moaned long and loud as she moved down the hall toward them.

“Damn you, Chelsea,” she croaked. “I haven’t been this hungover since the last time I visited you in L.A.” She shuffled to the table and sat down. “Did you make coffee?”

Chelsea shook her head and handed her sister the Coke.

“I did.” Jules got up and poured Bo a cup.

“We’re getting too old for this,” Bo said as she laid her head on the table.

Chelsea secretly agreed. They were both thirty, and at some point in anyone’s life, partying to excess lost its appeal. It just got pathetic, and before a girl knew it, she was one of those women who lived life on a bar stool. She tried another bite of her cereal and chewed carefully. Chelsea didn’t want to become one of those women with gravelly voices and overly processed hair. She didn’t want bad teeth and leathery skin. She didn’t want a boyfriend named Cooter who was doing ten to twenty for armed robbery.

Jules set the coffee in front of Bo, then returned to his place across the table. “You girls smell like the old Rainier brewery before they shut it down.”

Bo raised the coffee to her lips. “You’re not allowed to talk about beer for two days.”

“Okay.” Jules laughed. “Mini Pit.”

Last night, when Chelsea had told Bo that the hockey players called her Mini Pit, Jules had laughed until he’d choked. Neither twin had found it quite that funny, but to make Bo feel better, Chelsea had confessed that they called her Short Boss.

“Not today, Jules.” Bo set the coffee down. “Where’s your shirt?”

Jules grinned, raised his arms, and flexed like he was in a body-builder competition. “I thought you girls might enjoy the gun show.”

“Please,” Chelsea moaned. “We’re already sick.”

“I just vomited in my mouth,” her sister added.

Jules laughed and lowered his arm. “I’ll put the guns away until later.”

“God, I hate it when you’re all cheerful. Why aren’t you hungover?” Bo wanted to know.

“Because I was your designated driver. You don’t remember?”

“Barely.”

Chelsea wondered if her sister remembered making out with Jules. She wondered now if maybe she shouldn’t bring it up. Ever. There were times when not remembering was best. Like the time several years Ssevago when she’d streaked at a party in the Hollywood Hills. Chelsea had never been one to run like a gazelle, and it hadn’t been pretty. Too bad she hadn’t remembered that until the next morning. Sheesh, now that she thought of it, maybe she was impulsive. Especially when she drank.

“Do you remember singing ‘Kiss’?”

“The Prince song?” Chelsea asked. She didn’t recall singing Prince. Madonna and Celine Dion had been bad enough.

“Yeah. And you girls really got into ‘I Will Survive.’”

Apparently they’d had quite the song list. Why hadn’t anyone stopped them? They’d undoubtedly been horrid. Chelsea turned and looked at her sister. “Do you remember ‘I Will Survive’?”

“No. I hate that song. Why would I sing it?”

“You really got into it.” Jules added to their misery. “You two belted out that song like it was your own personal anthem or something.”

Bo whispered, “It’s probably a good thing that parts of last night are a total blank.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea agreed.

“Don’t tell me that you two have forgotten everything.” Jules picked up his spoon and continued eating. “You have to remember the threesome. Making it with hot twins has always been a personal fantasy of mine.” He looked up and grinned. “One that, I think it’s safe to say, I share with most men on the planet. I gave you girls some of my best moves, and I’ll be crushed if neither of you remember it.”

Bo rested her forehead in her hand. “Don’t make me kill you, Jules,” she said through a tortured sigh. “Not today. I’m just not in the mood to clean up the mess.”

After Jules left, the girls moved to the couch and settled in for a little R&R. Recuperation and reality television. A small cooler filled with Coke sat on the coffee table, and they kicked up their feet and tuned in to the brain rot that was New York Goes to Work.

Chelsea pointed at the reality star who’d made her first appearance on Flavor of Love. “She used to have such a cute body, but she ruined it with those big stripper implants.”

Bo nodded. “Sister Patterson should have smacked her upside the head. Why would any woman do that to themselves?”

It was a rhetorical question. “I can completely understand reduction though.” Chelsea decided to test the waters and see if her sister’s opinion had changed. “Boobs get in the way of everything.”

“Yeah, but have you seen the way they do the reduction?” Bo asked as New York shoveled pig manure. “It’s a form of mutilation.”

Chelsea guessed that answered the question. “It doesn’t look that bad. Not like it used to. The scar isn’t even very big.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about that again? They carve out huge chunks of your flesh. Like a pumpki S Lin.”

Bo sounded just like their mother. There was no talking to her about it, so she let it go.

“Remember when we sent in an audition tape for The Real World?”

Chelsea laughed. They’d been nineteen and learned the MTV reality show was going to be shot in Hawaii. They’d wanted to go in the worst way. “Yeah. We thought for sure they’d pick us because we’re twins.”

“We were so sure we’d get chosen, we started picking out swimsuits.”

“I was going to be the bad twin that flirted with the male cast members and you were going to be the one to lecture me about saving myself for marriage.” Believing they’d needed a hook to make themselves memorable to the casting directors, they’d played up the whole good-twin, bad-twin scenario on their submission tape. Bo had pulled her hair back and put on a pair of fake glasses to look the part, while Chelsea had dyed her hair purple and borrowed a friend’s leather biker jacket. On the outside it might appear as if they were still playing those roles, but Chelsea wasn’t playing at anything. She was just being herself. Chelsea Ross. Twin sister and loving daughter. Actress and assistant to a hockey superstar with a terminal case of bad mood-itis. As she watched New York artificially inseminate a pig, she wondered what her life would look like in a year. Hangovers always tended to make her kind of moody and introspective about her life.

In a year, she’d be living in L.A., going to auditions again. She’d be chasing her dream, but she wanted to do things a little differently this time so she didn’t get burned out. She didn’t want to work as an assistant to the stars anymore.

Maybe she’d start an event-planning business. Hire her own assistant to boss around. Not that she’d be mean or unreasonable. She knew what that was like. She’d worked with a lot of event planners in the past, and she liked to arrange and organize fun things. She was good at it, and she generally liked to be around people. That sort of enterprise wouldn’t take a lot of startup money, and hopefully she’d have more free time to go to auditions.

And by this time next year, she’d like to have a man in her life. A nice man with a hard body. An image of Mark Bressler popped into her head. No, a nice man.

Bo’s brain must have been on the same wavelength. Something that didn’t surprise Chelsea. “Do you ever wonder if we’ll find someone?” her twin asked.

“We will.”

“How can you be sure?”

Chelsea thought about it and said, “Because, if women on My Big Fat Redneck Wedding can find men, then we can too.”

A look of horror entered Bo’s blue eyes. “Those men pig wrestle, eat roadkill, and wear camouflage 24/7.”

Chelsea waved away her sister’s concern. “I think it’s fairly safe to say that neither of us will get married under a beer can arbor to a camo-wearing redneck yelling, ‘Git ’er done.’ We do have some standards.”

Bo bit the side of her lip. “You flirted with some guy in Sth a git-’er-done trucker’s hat last night.”

“That wasn’t flirting, and he wasn’t a redneck.” She knew because she’d checked out his teeth. None of them had been stained or missing. He’d just been some guy trying to be tragically hip. “And I didn’t make out with him like you did with Jules.”

“I’d never make out with Jules,” Bo said, and turned her attention to the television. “Look. New York is roping a goat.”

“Oh no. Don’t try and distract me. I saw you.”

“Probably some other short girl with dark hair.”

“You’re right. It must have been some other woman who looks exactly like my twin sister.”

“Fine.” Bo sighed and turned her pale face toward Chelsea. “I’ve been known to get drunk and call Jules.”

“How often?”

“Two or three times.”

“If you like him, why do you have to drunk-dial him?”

“I didn’t say I liked him.” Bo scowled as if they were ten again and boys were yucky. “Jules has a huge ego and dates a lot of different women. We’re just friends. Sort of.”

She remembered what he’d said once about liking girls who didn’t like him. “Maybe he wants to be more than friends.”

“Then why hasn’t he ever called and asked me out? No. He just wants a booty call.”

Chelsea’s mouth dropped. “You’ve given him the booty?”

“Not yet, but I’m afraid I will.” She pushed her short hair behind her ear. “Did you see his body? I don’t know how much longer I can hold out before I go all Basic Instinct on his ultra-fine behind.”

“Like stab him with a pick?”

“No. Like throw him down and jump on him.”

She liked Jules. “Maybe you should let him know how you feel.”

“I don’t know how I feel.” Bo reached into the cooler and pulled out a Coke. “Sometimes I don’t even like him. Sometimes I like him a lot. But it doesn’t really matter. I could never date Jules.”

“Why?”

Bo popped the top. “Because we work together. You can’t date someone you work with.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes, forgot she was hungover, and winced. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No. It’s not. It’d be like you dating Mark Bressler.”

“There is a difference between work with and work for.” She could never make out with her surly employer, let alone date him. He was a rude hard-ass, and those were his good qualities. The thought of a booty call with Mark was… was…

Was not as distu Ss nrbing as it should be. The thought of her sliding her hands all over his muscles should freak her out. For some reason it didn’t. Instead, the thought of touching him triggered thoughts of deep-kissing his mouth. Of looking into his dark brown eyes as she combed her fingers through his hair. Of putting her lips to his warm neck and pressing her hot, sticky skin to his.

The fact that these thoughts didn’t disturb her, disturbed her more. Sure, he was a handsome man, but she’d never had a thing for big guys. Macho guys who used their bodies and punched each other in the head. Yeah, hockey players wore helmets, but she’d seen the tapes of Mark hitting other players and getting hit himself.

And she’d certainly never had a thing for superstars and athletes. Certainly not superstar athletes. Athletes were the worst kind of superstar. A lot of them partied hard in the offseason and deserved their bad reputations. She’d never read anything bad about Mark, but she figured if she looked hard enough she would. She doubted he’d been an angel.

It didn’t matter that Mark no longer played professional hockey. When he was in public, he was still treated like a star athlete. He was given the sort of deference that she’d always found so disgusting.

So why didn’t the thought of sliding her hands on his rock-hard body disturb her? She didn’t know. Maybe because it had been a while since she’d slid her hands over anyone but herself. Maybe Bo was having the same dilemma. Or maybe it was Bo’s sexual frustration being transferred to Chelsea. It really was true that she could sometimes feel her sister’s physical pain. When they’d been younger, if one of them fell off her bike, the other felt it. It didn’t happen as much these days, but last year when Bo had broken her clavicle skiing, Chelsea had felt the pain in her shoulder and they hadn’t even been in the same state at the time. So she supposed it was possible that she was attuned to Bo’s hot, pent-up lust. Especially since they were lounging together on the very same couch.

She turned and looked at her sister, sitting there all innocent, watching junk TV and drinking a Coke. “You have to go get laid by a random stranger.”

Bo pointed to the television. “Can I wait for a commercial or do I have to git-‘er-done right now?”

“You can wait.”

Luckily, Chelsea didn’t have to depend on her sister to cure herself of her not-so-disturbing thoughts. Mark took care of it by being his usual disagreeable self.

Thank God.