If You Need Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

The door swings open, and Dallas’s arm shoots out. He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the bathroom. My boobs hit the door on the way in. He slams it closed behind him and turns the lock.

“Why am I in here with you?” I grimace at his sweaty, disheveled appearance. He’s hunched at the waist, one hand on his knee. “Are you sick? Do you have the flu? You better not have the flu. You should have told me before you wasted everyone’s time.”

“I don’t have the flu.” He’s panting. And still bent over. I don’t know what’s happening with his other hand, maybe cupping his junk?

“Then why do you look like…like this?” I fling a hand in his handsomely rumpled direction. Fucking Dallas. Such an annoyingly pretty boy, and a giant pain in my ass.

“I need a minute,” he snaps.

I scoff and fist my hands at my sides so I don’t give in to the urge to strangle him. He does this almost every time, and I firmly believe it’s to annoy me. He was the most popular guy in our high school, always the center of attention. He should be used to it by now.

But getting angrier will only make me look unprofessional, not him. It’s frustrating that nothing has changed since we were kids. I’m still the outspoken nerdy girl, and he’s still the prom king. I take a deep breath and put on my nice-Hemi hat, because I need him to leave this bathroom and do the promo shoot with the adorable Chihuahua mix so I can go to yet another coffee date with a random online dude whose picture is hopefully not ten years out of date.

I have a high school reunion this summer. I can’t go alone. Not when my ex-best friend and her longtime boyfriend will be there to rub their happiness in my face. High school wasn’t the same fun time for me as it was for Dallas. I need to show them my life has turned out just fine—and that includes having someone to share it with.

“Dallas Mattias Bright, you are a badass hockey player.” I stroke his overinflated ego. “Millions of people are cheering for you every time you take the ice. Adorable Chihuahuas are not a threat to you. You’ve done countless promo shoots before, and you know what you always do?”

“Make an ass of myself?”

“You always come out smelling like roses.” I grab him by the shoulders and attempt to force him to straighten, but he resists. “Stand up straight.”

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will unless you want to make balloon animals again at this year’s Halloween Haunt fundraiser.”

“Don’t threaten me with that, Willy.”

I grind my teeth at the horrible nickname he’s used since I started working for the Terror.

He grimaces, like he’s realized two seconds too late the mistake he’s made.

“I warned you.” He straightens.

And now I know why he was hunched over. Despite one hand being poised protectively in front of his crotch, it’s glaringly obvious that he has an issue in his underpants. A seriously huge issue. “Why the hell would you pull me into the bathroom when you have a massive hard-on?” I slap him across the chest.

He groans. I really wish it didn’t sound so hot.

“Do not make that sound while I’m in here with you! For the love of God, what the hell is wrong with you?” I tip my head up and stare at the ceiling rather than his dick print, which is clearly visible through his pale blue boxer briefs. I will never get that image out of my head.

“It’s an anxiety boner.”

“I don’t want to know. Please make it go away.” I continue to look at the ceiling tiles.

“I was trying.”

I lower my voice to an angry whisper. “By masturbating in a damn bathroom?” I can’t even.

“I tried to think of gross things, but then you started yelling at me, which made it worse, especially with the clown threats. You can’t do that to me again.”

I suck in a lungful of air and exhale my rage. I gentle my tone and pretend I’m dealing with one of the guys on the team who wasn’t responsible for making my entire elementary-through-high-school experience a nightmare. “Take a deep breath, please, Dallas.”

He gulps air like a dying fish.

“Come on, Dallas. In for the count of four, out for the count of four,” I cajole.

He sucks in air as I count, then releases it as I head back to one.

“Better?” I ask when his color has returned to almost normal.

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

I glance down, even though I shouldn’t. The problem in his pants seems to have deflated. Thank God.

“Splash some cold water on your face.” I check the time. We need to get a move on if I’m going to make my date. “Benita from hair and makeup is standing by to touch you up.” I cross my arms and wait.

“Are you staying in here?” Dallas’s gaze meets mine in the mirror for a moment before he does as I ask, then pulls a bunch of paper towels from the holder and dabs the wetness away. I do not appreciate the way the muscles in his forearms and biceps flex at all.

“You’re the one who pulled me in,” I point out. Again. It takes everything in me not to arch an eyebrow at him. I swear he’ll be the reason I need Botox before I’m thirty.

“Look, I have to pee.” Dallas runs a hand through his hair, making a delicious mess of it. “I swear I’ll only be a minute. I won’t even lock the door.”

I say nothing, just stare at him.

His lip twitches. “Please don’t get mad at me. I’ll just end up with another anxiety boner, and then we’ll have to go through this whole thing again.” He motions between us. “I’m not opposed, but I think you might be.”

“If you’re more than a minute, I will come back in here and drag you out.” Before he can say anything, I exit the bathroom.

Standing just down the hallway is Claudia the shelter director, Benita for makeup, the photographer, the cameraman, and two shelter volunteers. I smile and head for the group.

“Everything okay?” Benita asks through a practiced smile. She’s attended many a promo op and knows what Dallas is like.

“Everything is fine,” I assure her. I turn my attention to Claudia, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dallas sometimes gets a little nervous before he’s in front of the camera, but once things get rolling, he loosens right up.”

Thankfully, Dallas appears in the hall. He peeks up at the group through his ridiculously long eyelashes and adopts a smile reminiscent of his last name. All the women, including Benita, also duck their heads and echo his smile. Dallas evokes the same reaction from pretty much everyone. It’s exceedingly challenging not to roll my eyes.

“I’m sorry I kept you all waiting.” Dallas tucks his hand in his pocket.

“It’s totally fine,” Claudia assures him. “We really appreciate your support.”

“I wish I could have a dog, but my travel schedule makes that impossible. It would be one thing if I had a partner who could be there, but, uh, I’m still waiting for the right person to realize I’m the one,” Dallas says as he falls into step with Claudia.

I choke on a cough. Dallas has never had a girlfriend as long as I’ve been with the team, so there being a someone is news to me. Especially since he’s such a relentless flirt.

He glances over his shoulder and grins at me.

I drag my middle finger along my eyebrow.

“Is there someone special?” Claudia asks.

“Yeah, but she’s not ready for me yet. She’ll come around eventually.”

His ego is ridiculous. Of course he believes he can charm anyone he wants into falling for him because it happens all the time at the bar. Whenever our crew goes out, he flirts his face off, giving some poor woman false hope, because he always walks away at the end of the night.

I check my messages while Benita tackles Dallas’s hair and makeup. My date is still on. Conversation over the dating app has gone relatively well, so I’m hopeful this guy could be my date to this high school reunion.

Claudia and the photographer give Dallas a quick rundown. The only uncontrolled variable are the dogs. I know exactly how Dallas will act behind the camera, but puppies and rescue dogs can sometimes be skittish.

Claudia returns with the first dog, George. He’s a cross between a Chihuahua and a cairn terrier. The result is a scraggly little thing with one tooth that pokes out of his mouth at an odd angle. He’s adorably awkward. The second Dallas picks him up, he pees on him.

Dallas strips out of his shirt, putting his defined chest, abs, and arms on display. He’s stupidly cut, and he knows it. The photographer snaps several pictures while the shelter volunteers bring him a wet, soapy washcloth and towel. Everyone fawns all over Dallas, and Claudia apologizes several times.

“I don’t mind being peed on,” Dallas says, probably to be reassuring.

Benita and Claudia side-eye each other.

“I mean, it’s not a big deal. Not that I actually want—” George bites Dallas’s ear like his favorite chew toy.

Claudia brings out the second dog as Dallas puts on a shelter shirt provided by one of the staff. Bernardo is a huge St. Bernard. He’s so enthusiastic, he knocks Dallas to the floor, which is saying something since Dallas is six foot four and more than two hundred pounds of hockey player. Bernardo plants a huge paw on either shoulder and bathes Dallas’s face with his tongue, covering him in drool.

“I love men who love dogs,” Benita sighs.

“Especially hot, hockey-playing men who love dogs,” Claudia adds.

I stand by and watch gleefully as Dallas tries to escape the tongue and slobber. “I hope you’re getting this,” I say to our photographer.

“Oh hell yeah. This right here is gold.” He snaps away on his camera.

“I might need one of those turned into a poster for my office,” I muse. It’ll make the perfect dart board.

Eventually Bernardo stops making out with Dallas. There’s another shirt change and makeup touch-up. The shoot takes a slightly X-rated turn when Bernardo decides Dallas’s leg would be a good thing to hump.

“I wish I could do that,” one volunteer whispers.

The other giggles.

I grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut.

Grudgingly I have to give it to Dallas; he takes the humping like a champ. An hour and a half later, we have plenty of video footage and photos for the shelter to use in their upcoming campaign.

Dallas makes the shelter staff fall even more in love with him when he writes them a check for $10,000 before we leave. I doubt they’d fawn over him if they knew him the way I do. Writing a check doesn’t negate all the hell he and his friends put me through when we were growing up—like the time I heard the snick of scissors and my braid falling into their hands in elementary school.

By the time he’s done, I have half an hour to make it to the coffee shop.

“You heading home or to the office?” Dallas holds the door for me.

“Neither.”

“You meeting the girls?” he presses.

“No.” I stop in front of my car. “If you must know, I have a date.”

His lip curls as if in disgust. “A date?”

Same Dallas as always. I roll mine. “I realize I’m not a millionaire hockey player, Dallas, but I’m not an ogre, either.”

“That’s not⁠—”

I cut him off. “Save it for someone who gives a shit. I’ll be in touch once we have photo proofs and video clips.” I unlock my car door and slide into the driver’s seat.

“Willy—”

“Fuck a porcupine, Dallas.” I pull the door closed and flip him the bird as I leave the lot.

I really hope this date is the one, because I’m running out of time.