Karen Kendall - After Hours

Troy rinsed off his bloody knuckles under the tap and grabbed for the roll of paper towels. At least the cabinet doors hid only dated pots and pans, not a frightened woman and her crying children.

Troy headed for the bathroom off the master bedroom, sat on the edge of the bathtub and poured hydrogen peroxide over his feet. “You are one stupid sonuvabitch,” he said aloud, looking at the scrapes, bruises and abrasions. They were evidence of something even stupider: he’d gone and developed feelings for Peggy Underwood, and they were more than guilt feelings for sneaking around trying to break her business’s lease.

He told the feelings—whatever the hell they were—to get lost, but he knew it was a losing battle. He thought about the times he’d been a little rough with her sexually, and was deeply ashamed. He weighed twice what she did. How could he have not been gentler?

And where the hell did he go with her from here? No wonder she’d once told him that she wouldn’t date him. I don’t date football players. Not ever. He recalled her saying that.

A wave of protectiveness washed over him, and as he sat in the tub and watched the cuts on his feet bleed, he resolved that no matter what happened between him and Peggy in the end, he was going to change her viewpoint on football players. He could help heal some of the wounds of her past.

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