Blindsided Read online

  Landon’s eyes cut to mine. “They don’t respect me.” He’s had them two days and they’re already walking all over him. Turning around, he sighs, running his hand over his face with frustration. “This is such a fucking mess.”

  Unsure what else to do, I dig out my sketchbook to add some shading to the drawing I’ve been working on. It’s the only thing I can think to do to distract myself from the fact that he’s holding a baby in his arms and my ovaries are bursting. It’s of a city skyline disintegrating into ash. I’ve always been an artist. Ever since I was old enough to grip a brush, I’ve been splashing color across a canvas in hopes it offers me relief from the chaos inside my head. It’s the only time I ever feel at peace. You’re probably wondering what I could be tossed about? Here I am flying first class, sitting next to the hottest player in the NFL. Not exactly a rough life.

  There’s more to me than what you see, though. Mom died when I was seven… brother died of stomach cancer five years ago. And Dad… haven’t seen him since my mom died. He left us with my grandma two weeks after her funeral. Not exactly an aura of happiness. Maybe that’s why relaxation for me is when I’m lost in my creations, free from the madness that consumes thoughts I don’t understand.

  Landon hits my elbow again and my pencil skips across the page. “How can you draw at a time like this?”

  “Easy. It’s not my life that’s changing. It’s yours.” I’m partially joking because I know Landon well enough to know I will be dealing with the kids for the most part, not him. Setting my book in my bag, I think about how exactly his life is changing. This certainly wasn’t what he needed in his life at the moment.

  Needing a distraction, I pick up the magazine tucked inside the tray table in front of me. I wish I hadn’t. Landon’s on the cover.

  “I hate that picture of me,” he notes, rolling his eyes and shifting uncomfortably in the seat. He hates every photograph of himself because he doesn’t like making eye contact with anyone, let alone himself.

  My eyes drop to the magazine. He’s even more disarming when he’s photographed, and I can drink in the length of his amazing physique. The smirk, the eyes, the suggestive arrogance they hold, he’s trouble. He’s so much trouble it’s ridiculous.

  As an artist, I admire everything about this man. It’s in my nature to appreciate beauty, and this guy, he radiates beauty. His sharp jawline… the eyes, the muscles bulging and flexing with his every movement… he’s a masterpiece begging to be splashed across a blank canvas to capture his natural artistry.

  My heart beats erratically with thoughts of him and the way it feels to have that deep commanding voice of his directed your way. My attention drags to that rugged jaw and the hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his golden skin. Goddamn. Why do men have to be so fucking gorgeous? Full lips, defined cheekbones; he’s even sexier in person, if that’s possible. It’s then I capture his almond-shaped eyes sparkling beneath thick luscious lashes I wish I had. Underneath the looks, he has a heart, but he’s still an asshole. Don’t let the looks fool you. Unfortunately for me, I’ve always been attracted to assholes because like it or not, they fuck good. I don’t want a nice guy with romance and flowers. I want the one who isn’t afraid to fuck me against a wall or rough me up between the sheets. He has to be able to handle me. That theory most have because of my tattoos and general “fuck you” attitude that I’m a freak in bed is accurate.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the flight attendant asks, her hand on the back of his seat as she leans in. “I don’t mean to bother you and your friend, but are you Landon Slade?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Landon is always polite to strangers and wildly interested in what they say to him. Probably why it had been so easy for me to feel comfortable around him. He may not remember the nameless forgotten face, but they’ll always remember him.

  The woman blushes. “I’m a huge fan of yours. We actually went to the same college.”

  Turning in his seat, he gives the woman his attention. “Oh, yeah?”

  We’re on a private flight back to Seattle, but it certainly doesn’t seem to matter as far as the in-flight staff are concerned. I watch the two of them in conversation and though I don’t have a right to be, I’m brimming with jealousy.

  I hear her voice soften as she says, “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  “Oh, uh.” Landon pauses, his eyes on Nalani. “She’s my… niece.”

  I hate that he’s so polite to her. Why can’t he just be rude and say, mind ya business, lady?

  Because, that’s not Landon.

  He signs an autograph for her, gives her his number, which he won’t actually answer, and my breathing changes, coming faster.

  I know what you’re thinking, girl, are you in love with your boss?

  Sadly, and I fucking hate to admit it, but if there’s any one person in this world who haunts my dreams, my very detailed erotic dreams, it’s this guy. I’m sure he’s every woman’s fantasy, and if he’s not, his brother Revel is. Whether I want to admit it or not, I know absolutely everything there is to know about Landon, also known to most of you who follow football as LC. He’s twenty-six, first-round draft pick of the Seattle Seahawks and, as their starting quarterback, he’s led them to the playoffs every season since 2011, aside from last year when they lost the divisional title to the Falcons. He’s the highest paid player in the NFL and holds the record for the most touchdown passes thrown in a game.

  Shit, it’s like my mind just spat the stats from the NFL’s website.

  Told you I knew everything about him. I could run the guy’s fan club, but I don’t because I have enough to do being his assistant and maintaining that I don’t have romantic feelings for him. Which is way easier to pull off than the I’m-secretly-in-love-with-you gig.

  Shaking my head, I attempt to break the trance he always has on me. He’s out of my league. League? We’re not even playing the same game.

  I hate that I’m even thinking about him like this with him right next to me, our bodies occupying the same space. I shouldn’t think about him. I don’t need that in my life. I dated a professional football player once. Justice Bailey. He’s actually Landon’s teammate and I know from experience, football players have a certain mentality in life. Most players, from what I’ve seen, live football. They believe in it. They would be nothing without it, and they’re obviously psychotic if they believe that. One time I made the mistake of thinking it could work. Yeah, wanna guess how that ended?

  Total disappointment.

  You’re probably wondering how exactly I went from working at a tattoo shop to this, sitting next to him on a plane and working for him. I’ll tell you.

  Having just graduated high school and mourning the loss of my brother, I was bitter, mean, and brooding. For a girl, those aren’t remarkable traits to have. Guys want bubbly and blonde. Me being curvy, having jet-black hair, and tattooed from head to toe, never would I have thought Landon would give me the time of day, but for some reason, the moment he laid down on that table and asked me to surprise him with a tattoo on his shoulder, I knew he wasn’t like every other football player. Back then, I was barely making rent and sleeping with my boss. Wasn’t exactly heading in the right direction. And my bank account looked something similar to the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

  But once that cocky son of a bitch with beautiful lips and pretty eyelashes sat down on the table, that motherfucker took one look at me and thought I needed saving. Long story short, he needed an assistant and I wanted out of the tattoo business. I didn’t know a damn thing about being a professional athlete’s assistant, but I knew how to take care of someone and organize. I mean, hello, I lived in a closet for a year. I knew how to keep shit organized… aside from the Twinkie wrappers that gave me away. I’m still not good at hiding my candy wrappers. But, as it turns out, all Landon needed was someone to take care of him and in turn, I fell head over heels in love with his cocky, needy ass over the course of five years.

  Though Landon is rarely
without women in his life, it doesn’t stop him from trying to get me to have sex with him. It’s like a game with him. Let’s see how far we can push Ember before she cracks and fucks me. To date, there’s been two occasions where this almost happened. First time I was drunk and he stopped us. The second was last week while we were in Hawaii with his teammates. What stopped us? Well, this time, me, drunk again and him, just horny I guess and then his grandmother calling him to tell him his brother died. And now… now I have no idea where we stand or what’s going on. Other than I should give up wine around Landon.

  The bottom line is—I can’t fuck him. I can’t date him. I can’t even entertain the idea of it. Why? I don’t want to lose him as a friend. You might look at him and see hotness, and while I do, too, I see the guy who stayed up all night with a girl he barely knew because he understood she needed someone to talk to. I see the guy who helped me move out of my boss’s house in the middle of the night. I see the guy who gave me a job and a place to live. I see the guy who stayed with me and held my hand when my best friend was in the hospital and he was supposed to be playing in the Pro Bowl.

  I hate that I find myself watching every game just to get a look at him without him knowing. I hate my shallowness, my foolishness, at loving the way his square, hard jaw tics when he fights a smile every time I turn him down. Like it’s a game. To him, it probably is and only solidifies why I keep saying no. Aside from when I drink wine.

  But even with all that, I hate that I love his witty remarks when I turn him down. I hate that he’s funny and cute, even when he’s not trying to be, when he’s dead tired from a three-hour practice but still finds a way to offer a smile or a wink to the hopeless idealist inside me. It’s torture.

  And I really fucking hate that every week from September to February, my heart does crazy things in my chest when I see him on the field, sweaty, cold, and callous as he puts everything he has into the game that’s sculpted him. I despise him, only because deep down, I crave his presence. But I don’t, not even a little bit, hate him. Are you confused? Welcome to my head. Landon’s the only thing, outside art, that can make me forget the panic inside my head.

  Closing the magazine, I tuck it back inside the tray table and roll my eyes at my own ridiculousness.

  Staring out the window, I focus on the smoggy, suffocating Dallas skyline. While I enjoy the south, the few times I’ve been here, I love the northwest. I can’t see myself living anywhere else. My heart’s intertwined in the old-growth trees, the droopy moss and the murky thickets of blackberry. I find peace in the scrubby alder that smothers your soul and cages you in. That… that soothes me. It’s like a blanket to hide underneath.

  Most of the time, Seattle is submerged in a constant drizzle from low-hanging clouds. Winters with their fleece-vested, granola-eating hikers, can be brutally chilly with the marine air, and forget about wearing shorts until June. But the summers, those breathtaking pines, and mountainous views, my God, they’re fucking beautiful.

  Landon shifts in his seat, leaning into me and adjusts Nalani on his chest. She’s still sound asleep. For someone who didn’t ever want kids, he’s certainly a natural around them. It’s like he thinks they’re a bubble and he’s going to pop them. “Did you check on Cat today?”

  I nod. “Yeah, she stayed with Kumonde and Kenya.”

  Cat is my best friend, aside from Landon, and in turn, his friend. Cat is who I stayed with when I ran away from my grandmother’s house with my little brother at thirteen. Cat, she’s bizarre. She’s like, the weirdest person I know, and that’s saying something. I grew up on the streets of Seattle. I’ve seen a lot of weird shit. Cat and I, we’re complete opposites but bonded in the third grade over a juice box and our love for the color purple. I’m curvy, she’s supermodel thin. I have jet-black, thick hair down to my ass, and she’s a ginger-blonde with dreads. I have blazing cobalt eyes the color of the sky and fire in them, hers are the color of canyon clay, and is always sweet. I have tattoos, she’s pure and peppered with freckles. Not a single tattoo, but it doesn’t stop her from wanting one.

  Landon sighs. “How much you want to bet she’s cleaning their house and reorganizing everything.”

  “I bet she’s organizing their pantry as we speak.”

  “If only she remembered where she put everything.” Landon laughs at the memory of her in his condo “organizing” his pantry. And by organizing, we mean rearranging for the hell of it. She gets bored easily.

  Cat’s memory isn’t what it used to be, which is why she lives with me and has to have a babysitter when I’m out of town. She’s vulnerable and naïve, but that’s not her fault. Two years ago, she was in a car accident up on Bainbridge Island. Her and another girl hit another car head on. Her coworker was killed instantly, and Cat suffered a compressed skull fracture. She had to have brain surgery for a massive hematoma and a lateral skull fracture that resulted in damage to a good portion of her short-term memory. After spending three months in the ICU, it took her two months to remember anything about her life, and even then, it’s fuzzy for her. Now she’s like Dory from Finding Nemo, but not quite as bad as Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates. We don’t have to remind her of the accident every day. You just can’t leave her alone overnight because the likelihood of her cooking and burning the house down is a very real possibility.

  Me, being the sarcastic friend, told her we were lesbian lovers after the accident. She believed me for a week, then politely told me she couldn’t see herself liking to eat pussy, so it didn’t make any sense to her. She also has absolutely no filter. Sometimes I like to tell her she liked certain things just to see her face when she doesn’t. Like fish. She used to hate fish. We’re from the Northwest. Fish is everywhere. Turns out, she still hates it.

  “What if the plane crashes?” Haisley asks her brother.

  I cringe, knowing he’s going to say something mean to her. “Then we die.”

  Landon and I both stare at one another. He gives me that look that screams annoyance, but also, what do I do now?

  I shrug.

  “Don’t tell her that,” Landon whispers back at him through the seats. “You’ll freak her out.”

  “What?” Adler asks as if he’s offended. “You want me to lie to her?”

  “No, but she’s five. Do you really think you should say that to her?”

  “Like she doesn’t know what death is by now.”

  Twisting back around in his seat, I can’t tell what Landon’s thinking, but I see the little boy behind us, and though he’s trying like hell to remain strong, his confidence wavers with the word “death” and we’re both reminded of why we’re on this potentially deadly plane with these kids.

  The death of Landon’s brother, Grant.

  Cadence – The words or sounds a quarterback makes prior to receiving the ball from the center. One sound or word is usually the indication to the offense to begin the play.

  I enjoy sleep. I don’t get nearly enough of it, but if I could sleep fourteen hours a day, that’d be cool with me. And then, maybe fucking, the other ten. Sadly, since these kids showed up, I’m not doing much of either and probably won’t be for a long damn time.

  “What’s he doing?” one of them asks. I don’t have the energy to open my eyes to see which one. We flew from Texas to Washington two days ago on a private jet and it was a straight up shitshow. Adler spent the entire flight picking on Haisley. Marley and Braylee fought, and Nalani slept on me. All. Four. Hours. Who knew a baby would sleep that long? Then, about an hour before we landed, Adler took it upon himself to annoy his sisters further, and me, by dancing to “Watch Me” and perfecting his whip and nae nae, which also meant smacking me in the head every time he whipped. If it had been a commercial flight, we would have been placed on the “Do Not Fly” list, for sure.

  Yesterday, all their shit arrived, and my condo has been turned into something similar to one of those homeless shelters with cots and crap strung all over the place. For someone who strives on rul
es, regulation, and organization, it’s my worst nightmare.

  But back to my sleep being interrupted, yet again.

  “He’s sleeping by the looks of it,” another pipes up, poking my shoulder. It sounds like the little one, Haisley. The one who made me give her pigtails yesterday. Have you ever put a child’s hair in pigtails? It’s harder than it looks, and requires more coordination with your hands than I initially thought. I give credit to all the moms out there whose children have nice hair. That shit is hard, and she didn’t even ask for braids. I dread the day that happens and fear it’s coming too soon.

  “Aww, cute!” the tiny one says. She says two things so far that I’ve heard. “No,” and “Aww, cute!” That’s a lie. Last night she punched my head and said, “Hi,” as if that was acceptable.

  “He’s probably dead,” a third voice mumbles. It’s Adler. Can’t miss the annoyance for being here. When we landed in Seattle, he decided he hated it here and told me every single fact about Seattle I never cared to know. Like the fact that there are more dogs living in Seattle than children. I don’t like dogs. I don’t even like kids. Or that Seattle sits directly on top of the Cascadia fault line and we’re all going to die in a 9.0 earthquake. We won’t have to worry about the dog population anymore.

  “No. His chest is moving,” another one says. “That means he’s breathing.” I give up. I don’t care whose voice that one is. I just want to fucking sleep.

  “People can still be dead and their bodies move.”

  “You’re so dumb. They can’t.”

  Someone touches my face and then pries my damn eye open. And then a little auburn-haired kid is in my blurry eyesight. “See. He’s not dead. His eyes are still there.”

  “Honestly, Braylee, sometimes I wonder about you. What do you think happens to someone’s eyes if they die?”

  “They go into their skull and just roll around?”

  Even I crack one eye open and look at the kid, wondering what she’s been learning in school for the last few years. Fuck, school! I’m gonna have to enroll them in school too, aren’t I? Where do I do that? Am I supposed to know all this? Shouldn’t there have been some kind of manual before they let me have these little bastards? Like an instruction playbook? How can you just hand custody to someone without at least making them pass a class? Seems ridiculous.