Sage: Take the Risk (F&L Story #3)

Sage: Parts 9 & 10

Part Nine

Thursday, July 29, 2010.

“Momma, don’t,” Sage groaned as Carmen Honeycutt guided her daughter to the Queen Anne sofa in the parlor for The Talk.

“I just want to know that you’re being safe,” her mother said.  “That young man needs to know that you’re not just another trollop in his black book, and that he needs to be responsible.  You have to take care of your body, Sage.  Getting pregnant would not be the best situation for you.”

“Momma, I swear to you, it’s fine.  Carey’s a good person.  He cares for me,” she lied through her teeth and was pleased at how she almost convinced herself.  “I won’t get pregnant.”  That wasn’t a lie.  She’d have to actually have sex first. 

“Was he gentle?” her mother persisted.  “Your first time should be special.”

“Momma, please.”

“It’s not a horrible question.  Making love to a man can be demanding and sometimes one-sided.  I just want to know that he’s taking care of you.”  And her mother mumbled under her breath, “Something your father doesn’t seem to understand.”

“Mother!” Sage groaned loudly.  “I do not want to hear about this.  Please, let’s just go upstairs and finish packing.”

Carmen eyed her daughter thoughtfully.  “Where in heavens did you get that dress?  You know it’s not very flattering on you.  A girl with your coloring shouldn’t wear pink.”

I like pink.  Sage rolled her eyes like a petulant teenager and left her mother to go finish packing her clothes and personal items.  In the ten minutes she’d been here, she’d been downgraded to a pubescent twelve-year-old with horrible fashion sense.  “You can always come home,” her mother said as Sage stored the last box in Carey’s truck, and Sage thought, Like hell I will – even her thoughts were beginning to mimic Carey – and kissed her suffering mother good-bye.

*****

Part Ten

Thursday, July 29, 2010.

“I have to get my own car,” Sage sighed when she returned later that night.  Carey loped down the flight of stairs outside the apartment building to help her unload her stuff, taking a few moments to study how well she handled her parents’ questions.  She looks tired, he judged.  Her face was drawn tightly across her cheekbones and her green eyes were faded to a dull color.  Her parents were definitely not good for her. 

“We’ll figure something out,” he commented, grabbing the biggest box from the bed of his truck.  “What kind of job will you be looking for?”

She looked away and smiled, bending over the tailgate to reach a bag, and he got sidetracked by the way her pink dress drifted up, molding across her lower back and hips.  Damn.

“Trying to get rid of me already?”

He raised his eyes to hers just in time to hide his appreciation for her backside.  “No.  Why do you think I am?”

“It’s just that when I start making money of my own, I’ll be able to move out, and be out of your way.”

“Hell, Sage.  I didn’t mean it like that.  I’m just curious as what kind of skills you have.”

Her lips twitched a bit, and a glimmer of mischief sparked in her eyes.  Well, well, well.  Red’s got a dirty mind.  Oh yeah, he’d love to discover her skills.  All her skills.

To show that he wouldn’t be fazed by her silent innuendo, he rolled his eyes and said, “Eve’s been a bad influence on you.”  She grinned, shrugged and brushed past him with her arms full.  As he followed her, he was pretty damn sure she muttered, “You’re the bad influence, batboy.”

Batboy?

Carey’s feet stopped on the third tread up to his apartment.  I ain’t no measely batboy.  He was still standing there when she trotted down again for another load.  “What did you just call me?”

The little minx winked at him and slid past.  He put down the box and followed her.  Reaching the truck together, he seized her arm and twirled her body around, which he pinned against the passenger door with his own.  “What did you call me?” he asked again in a low growl.

Sage raised her chin.  “I called you a batboy.  You going to toss me out for it?”

“I might,” he said, pressing closer.  Good God, she was so soft.  “I’m the coach, not the batboy.  I’m in charge.”

“So, what does that make me?”

Temptation…a Grand Slam…the elusive  27 up, 27 down…just nanoseconds from being kissed.

Carey backed away to give her – him – room to breathe.  “You’re my guest, of course.  But if you have to call me something, it’s either Carey or Coach.”

“Hmmm,” she mused, arching her eyebrow, her eyes no longer dull and faded.  “I like batboy better.  I’ll think I’ll stick with that.”  Then she slithered across the side of the truck – lucky truck – and escaped to gather the rest of her belongings.

He had half a mind to help her empty out the stuff she brought back with her, but after opening the first box, he spied neatly, perfectly folded articles of clothing, and he knew he’d just screw everything up.  Who the hell folded their socks?  Carey bought the same kind, the same color, every time so he wouldn’t have to worry about matching the things.  He nearly said something about it, then she dumped out a faded suitcase on her bed, and his gaze latched onto the sexy combinations of lace and satin  in every color known to man. 

She wore plain, white panties, but her bras were the things that wet dreams were made of.  He peeked at Sage.  She knew he saw them, from the blush that stole up her neck and cheeks, but the stubborn tilt of her jaw told him that she dared him to say anything about them.  Carey loved a good challenge.

He picked up the closest bra between his fingers and said, “How do girls wear these things?”  If she blushed any more, her skin would become the same color as her hair.  Sage snatched the pale yellow lacy contraption out of his grasp. 

“And I suppose all you guys would rather we not wear any at all?”

Carey put his hands on his hips and grinned.  “I could go for that.”

Now, it was her turn to roll her eyes.  “Oh, yes.  I figured you for a breast man.”

He cast a studious look over her parts in question, and nodded, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Sage huffed and pushed him out of her room.  “Go away, batboy.  If I need your help, I'll ring a bell.”

Carey turned just as his feet crossed the threshold.  “You know, you used to be nice and shy and shit,” he grumbled, and loving the new Sage.  He liked the old one, too, but this one was so much more fun.  Sure, she still blushed, but she was a stubborn smarty-pants...and that kind of turned him on more than the sweet innocence she projected in the hospital. 

“I'm still nice and shy,” she argued, thrusting her chin in the air, and Carey grinned at her.  “But I refuse to be a doormat ever again.”

He went still.  His gaze bore into her as she closed the door in his face.  Was it his imagination, or did she just direct that statement at him?  When did he ever treat her like a doormat?

How about the time you kissed her and seduced her, and then left her to rot in that medical prison?

Carey resisted the urge to smash his fist through the wall.  He hated having a conscience.  The freaking curse hit below the waist.