Dahlia Aldridge
Sweat dripped down the back of my neck as I brought my arm back and swung the racket forward, sending the ball across the net, my coach running to return the shot. My entire body ached from the last hour of training, and I knew I was going to suffer for this later. The morning sun burned my skin slightly as I felt myself being purged of the nightmare that had terrorized me the night before.
This was the only way I knew how to center myself.
This was the only way I knew how to not overthink.
I had guessed that my happy little high would end, but after returning home last night, it had all come crashing in on me. I’d spent an hour staring up at the ceiling before falling into a series of fitful dreams, one of them featuring Ian’s forceful hands on my skin. Others included far more insidious figures who haunted the edges of my peripheral vision, taunting me and leaving me feeling empty inside. I’d woken up feeling panicked and sick, so I had called up Coach Terry, and here I was.
After another ten minutes, she called the practice and left me breathing heavily on the court, walking back and forth before stretching my muscles. I’d worn a pair of athletic shorts and a sleeveless polo, knowing I would be out of the club before anyone actually showed up today. Now that it was nearly nine in the morning, if I had to guess, I could tell others were arriving for golf.
I couldn’t bring myself to drive home just yet.
After last night, I knew I owed it to my boys to send them a quick message explaining where I would be this morning so they wouldn’t lose their shit. Especially since our parents had left for Italy this morning, leaving me in a massive, empty house. It was only one more reason why everything had felt completely off this morning.
Forced.
Heavy.
Something was wrong in the air, and as I adjusted my ponytail and took a sip from my water bottle, I got the feeling it was about to get ten times worse. Call it instinct, but when the gates of the tennis court opened, I immediately knew it was someone I wasn’t going to want to see. What I hadn’t expected?
That it would be Max Brooks.
Both twins were attractive, somewhat, but Max knew he was attractive, and he had this slimy, chauvinistic air to him that had me feeling almost naked in his presence. He was just one of those men. You felt like he was constantly undressing you. I grabbed my water bottle and offered him a head nod as I went to exit the court.
Of course, he stepped right in my path with a smile.
“Good morning, Dahlia,” he purred with interest. “You are looking absolutely stunning this morning.”
“Thanks, Max.” I offered a tight smile, feeling horribly uncomfortable, which wasn’t all that surprising considering who he was as a person.
“What are you doing here?” He tilted his head, looking over me as his leering smile grew.
“Just needed to work off some energy,” I explained before continuing, “but I need to get going—”
“I’m surprised you have any excess energy,” he interrupted, offering a smirk. “Sounds like your needs aren’t being met.”
Oh, ew.
I crossed my arms. “No. It really has nothing to do with that, Max.”
“So you are satisfied with everything in your life?” he mused, his eyes darkening with something I didn’t want to examine.
“Absolutely,” I hissed, wondering if his sister had sent him here.
His eyes sparkled with malice. “And how do you handle knowing that the men you love are hiding shit from you?”
What?
I swallowed and tilted my head. “I really have no idea what you are talking about, Max, and I don’t have time for this.”
“Don’t have time to hear about how they are sneaking behind your back and dealing with shady people? Or are you already aware of the bullshit they’re involved in? Bullshit that you are no doubt going to suffer because of,” he pointed out.
My jaw clenched. “Are we going to stand around chatting all day or can I get past you?”
His hands went up in an innocent gesture as I slid past him, scowling at the way he moved forward so that his body rubbed against mine. Shaking my head, I walked towards the locker room, needing to get the hell out of here. My gaze snapped towards the entrance of the tennis court complex, where an older gentleman, around my father’s age, walked in.
“Morning, Dahlia,” he offered formally, his gaze narrowing on his son behind me, who was still lingering in the gate of the court I’d been using.