Busted Play: The Series (Players, Books 1-6)

by Stella Marie Alden

I know she’s fuming despite her professional mask, especially when she doesn’t look up to say goodbye. She’s pretending to be busy entering data into her computer as I walk out the door. Then it dawns on me. I fuckin’ can’t believe it. The pain in my knee is less. I’m beginning to think my Barbie is part magician.

  Shit. I forgot to get her name.

  After phoning Jaz about some more charity events, I head to midtown Manhattan and show off my new flexibility to Stan. That convinces him to give me a grueling upper body workout.

  Finished, he starts the water in the cold tub. “I heard she was good. I had no idea she was that good.”

  I lower in, shivering. “So why not hire her?”

  His look says I’m off my rocker and I get it. She’s a young woman who’d end up in a room of naked men. The world hasn’t changed all that much but I want her to get some recognition. With that, her career might take off and she won’t need ass-hats like Des-picable taking advantage of her.

  Later, I dress in black jeans and black t-shirt, the go-to chic for the side of Brooklyn my brother lives in. I even steal a splash of his expensive after-shave. You never know, it could help. My nose, broken too many times is a little crooked but I’m told my smile is worth a thousand bucks. Actually, closer to a couple mil’ if I manage to keep my advert deal.

  That reminds me, Jaz wants some statement about what happened. What am I supposed to say? No, I didn’t know the girl before that night. Yes, I met her in the bar. Yes, I intended on fucking her. And no, I haven’t spoken to her since. Maybe she’s in jail for hooking. I hope so. Anyhow, her mom and dad should lock her up. How the hell was I supposed to know she was jail-bait?

  The season was done and I’d had a few drinks. But I’m not supposed to be human. I’m CJ Quinn, the next Manning. And just one night, just one, I fucked up. I got into a car with a beautiful young woman who’d hit on me, looking for a quick lay. Turns out she was sixteen but looked at least ten years older. Why hadn’t the bartender carded her?

  Those are my thoughts as I down a craft ale with the best bar food I’ve ever had. Then suddenly I stare at the door, mouth wide.

  Her hair is down, all bright and shiny, like an ad for shampoo. She must’ve bought or borrowed a dress which is so short, it takes my breath away. It’s also tight around the chest, revealing what I’ve been feeling every time she bends over me. I’m not generally a big boob guy, but I think she just changed my mind. The thought of caressing those lovely orbs while she writhes under me makes me hard as hell.

  My reaction is probably because this is the first time I’ve seen any woman in the city without a ton of goop on her face. In New York, the women are fucking experts with the stuff. They make their eyes all big and their lips plump. A guy hasn’t got a chance.

  Her girl-next-door look makes me remember my roots where swimming holes, truck beds, and starry nights are the norm. As she gets closer, I notice this wicked little line of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Damn. She looks good enough to eat.

  I stand up and pull back a chair which seems to surprise her. That just proves to me she’s been with the wrong kind of man.

  “Thanks.” When she shoots me my first real smile, something deep in my chest cracks, and warning bells clang in my brain.

  Ignoring the alarms, I sit, unable to keep my eyes off from her. “Something to drink?”

  “Just sparkling water.” She’s so fucking beautiful, but not in a city way. More like a barefoot babe in a cornfield under a summer blue sky.

  When I order, her brows raise. “Don’t abstain on my account.”

  I raise my glass of iced tea that I’d been nursing and grimace. “Off the hard stuff until my manager gives the okay.”

  “Why is that?” A pink tongue slips across her lower lip making me want to kiss her and tangle with it.

  But when my brain returns, what she says sinks in. No wonder she’s being nice. She hasn’t heard how I almost went to bed with an underage groupie.

  I push my plate of sweet potato fries in front of her. “Surely you’ve heard of my little PR problem?”

  “Uh, no, not really. What happened?” A salty vegetable slips inside her mouth, the place I want to explore fully but when she finds out about me, not likely.

  I might as well get this over with. I share the same tale I’ve been telling everyone since last month. “I got into a car with a girl who was too young for what she had in mind. She tried to jump the light and a cab crashed into us. The paparazzi following us went nuts.”

  When she frowns, I try to explain further. I don’t know why, but her opinion matters. “Hey. She had on a ton of makeup, fake boobs, fake everything. She came onto me and I accepted. If that cab hadn’t broadsided us, I shudder to think what might’ve happened. Damn. I’m not like that. What was I supposed to do? Card her? Shouldn’t the bartender have done that?”

  Disappointed blue eyes like the sky between the goal posts stare accusingly and it makes me feel like a worthless piece of shit. “I swear I didn’t know she was a kid for Christ’s sake. Maybe if I hadn’t been drinking, I would’ve seen through her. I don’t know. You women just don’t get what it’s like.”

  Why doesn’t she say something? Dammit all. In silence, we watch a couple of guys shoot pool in the corner.

  After a moment, she taps my arm, sighs, and looks me squarely in the eye. “What do you want, Mr. Quinn? Why am I here? Do you want to fire me because I got a few personal problems? That hardly seems fair considering your situation.”

  I give her credit for being so blunt. It’s just another thing I like about her.

  “What if I said I want to help you?”

  She snorts out a laugh. “Why? Do you know of someone looking for a roommate who lives around here?”

  I shake my head. “No. I heard you talking about getting married.”

  Sparkling water that shoots from her mouth hits the table. “Oh my God. Sorry. You can’t be serious. I was just kidding.”

  Suddenly I realize I couldn’t be more serious. It’s the most perfectly glorious solution to her problem and mine. “Listen. I’ll get us an apartment, replace your lost stuff, buy you some nice clothes and-”

  Chair scraping against the wood floor, she jumps up and leaves a five on the table. “I don’t know what gave you the impression I’m like that but I’m not. Jesus, Quinn. Ego much?”

  I try to rush after her but the damn leg won’t move as she sprints out the door and out of sight.

  Later, when speaking to my brother, Andy, I try to hash out what I did wrong. “I gave her this perfectly valid offer, she got all high and mighty, and ran off like I insulted her.”

  My brother’s all but rolling on the floor, tears in his eyes, and if I didn’t need an answer so bad, I’d probably punch him.

  Then he wipes a neatly creased sleeve across his face. “When was the last time you dated a good girl?”

  “You know very well. Besides she’s not one of those. She was shacked up with Des, for crying out loud.” I hobble over to the bar and pour an ounce of scotch knowing I’m not going out again.

  “Holy shit, CJ, get a clue. She’s from Iowa for God’s sake. I bet if you ask her, this Des of hers is the only man she’s ever slept with.”

  “I bet you a thousand bucks you’re wrong.”

  “I’m already spending it. Give me her name and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  That’s when I realize, that I still don’t know her name. I never asked, not even when I asked her to marry me. Usually I don’t care. Ever since Mary Jane McAllister, I don’t date nice girls. To be honest, I don’t date. I fuck. I never get names and I never put numbers in my phone.

  Sometimes I can be a real ass.

  Chapter 7

  I can’t believe that hotshot would think he could keep me as his whore. Visions of that movie, Pretty Woman, flash into my head.

  I know all about guys like CJ Quinn. He goes through women like I go through bottles of hair conditioner and believe me, th
at’s saying something. I checked online. In every photograph, there’s a different model clinging to his arm or draped across his body. I wonder if he made them the same deal, an apartment and some nice clothes in exchange for sex.

  That thought makes me want to hurl but I’ve only got a few days left before I’m homeless. I could call up Doctor Jones and tell her about my father but she won’t believe me. No point in going there. Besides, it would just expose me for what I am.

  I let my father touch me for years without telling anyone. What does that make me?

  I moan. Maybe I am a whore. Despite years of trying to be a better person, CJ saw right through me. Before I’m consumed with childhood memories, I close my eyes and visualize opening this little jewelry box with a tiny twirling ballerina. Then, I throw in my stupid thoughts and shut it tight. For years, this has been how I deal with my childhood incest.

  Just lock it up and don’t think about it.

  My father molested me from the time my breasts first came in. I swear I was so young, I had no clue it was even sexual. When I did figure it out, it had gone on for years. I tried to get him to stop but somehow by then I was brain-washed. His touch was normal in my weird perverted life.

  Shit. I’ve read enough to have a degree in the subject but it still feels like it was all my fault.

  Argh. Small box open, thoughts in, cover down.

  There’s no going home. Not a choice. Even at my age, my father’s hands will sneak to cop a feel. If I say anything, I know the outcome. Banishment forever. I got cousins, two brothers, and two sisters. Nephews, nieces. Dammit. I just can’t do it. I can’t be left all alone in the world. Better to just stay away except for weddings, funerals, and an occasional holiday.

  Sitting in my bedroom shared with five other women, I consider my options. Then I start calling everyone I know but it’s no use. No one has room for me, everyone is maxed out for space.

  When I try a couple brokers and tell them what I need, I almost lose it. One just laughs, one suggests I try Craig’s list, and the rest hang up or take my number.

  After soul-searching for hours I realize I have three choices. I can try to convince Dr. Jones that my world-famous father is a pedophile, I can live on the street, or I can take CJ Quinn up on his offer.

  Shit. If I have to move in with him, I’m going to do this my way. I’m not going to keep anything he gives me and no damn sex. That last part I might regret.

  I pick up my phone and text.

  Me: K. I’ll marry you but no sex.

  CJ: Nice. Need 2 know 1 more thing.

  Me: ?

  CJ: Your name?

  Me: Melanie Sanders.

  CJ: Can call u Mel?

  Me: No. It’s Melanie.

  CJ: K, Mel. C U tomorrow.

  From now on, I’ll always hate little yellow winking emojis.

  Chapter 8

  Outside my cab, it’s begun to spit snow, a huge snowstorm predicted but I’m practically shitting myself with happiness.

  I call Jaz with the greatest idea I’ve ever had. “I’m getting married.”

  “You got to be fucking kidding me.” He obviously doesn’t appreciate my brilliance.

  I lose connection in the tunnel and have to call him back. “Sorry. You there?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So get this. She’s from Iowa. Blond hair, blue eyes? All-American as apple pie?”

  He hisses through his teeth. “Sweetheart, the press will see right through a sham. It won’t fly.”

  “Sure it will. Let me text you her picture.” I send him her Facebook picture, glad I finally got her name.

  A gasp sounds on the line. “My God. She’s gorgeous.”

  “Right? Get Pete to check her out for me.” After my last disaster, I don’t trust anyone. A quick look by his private investigator will calm my mind.

  “Just a sec.” Fast clicking on a keyboard tells me he’s Googling her.

  Having researched for hours last night, I know what he’ll find about her. There’s a sparse Facebook page and a few shots of her on Instagram, and LinkedIn. I wait for Jaz to get that her father is Mark Sanders, the best trainer in the biz.

  Suddenly my friend is so fucking thrilled that he might just jump through the phone and kiss me on the mouth. He must’ve found the picture of her with her family at a Fourth of July parade. By now he’s counting his percentage of my advert deal, his voice all high and excited.

  “We got to do this right. First off we need a back story.”

  “Why don’t we try the truth? She’s my physical therapist, we got to talking, and hit it off.”

  “Brilliant! I’ll start right on it while you move in together. And we’ll have to say you’ve been together for a couple months.”

  “Wait, wait. We can’t do that. What did I do? Cheat on her with Bonnie?”

  “Who’s Bonnie?”

  I swear I might have to fire him. “Bonnie, like in Bonnie and Clyde. The one driving the car? The night my knee was wrecked?”

  “Oh yeah. Sure, sure. That wouldn’t look so good.” Computer keys start tapping madly again in the background.

  Outside my cab, the flakes of snow are huge, and coming down harder. I wonder if I’ll need to find a hotel tonight. “Look. Can’t you just let it leak out that I just started seeing a nice girl from Iowa?”

  “Iowa?”

  “Yeah. You know. The state that starts with I and ends with corn?”

  “I thought they had potatoes.” The tap-tapping pauses.

  “That’s Idaho.”

  “Whatever. I can work with corn. Farms. Cows. Chickens. Is she good in bed?”

  “I haven’t slept with her, for fuck’s sake.” I shouldn’t snap but it bothers me that he’s lumped Barbie, I mean Mel, with all my other women.

  I explain to Jaz how I’m going to need two apartments. One will be for show in Manhattan, the other will be in Bushwick so she can walk to work.

  “Great, great. I’ll get someone right on it. Now, about the divorce.”

  “Huh? We aren’t even married yet.” My chest clenches at the thought of her leaving me.

  “Well, you’re not staying shackled, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Somehow in all the excitement of getting married and having sex, it hadn’t occurred to me that I couldn’t keep her.

  “Well we can’t have you looking like the bad guy or you’ll be right back where you started. This is how I see it playing out. She’ll jilt you at the altar, a runaway bride thing. Picture yourself as this bereft hero that survives having his heart ripped apart by this conniving, money-grabbing-”

  “Stop. No. Not going to happen. We’ll get a quiet divorce in about a year. That’s not negotiable.” My gut wrenches thinking of her portrayed like that.

  “We’ll talk. Hmmm…. We need a farm. We need kisses. Ducklings. Baby goats and a chicken coop in the back yard. Guys with straw hats and a John Deere. God yeah. We need to get you on a tractor with your shirt off.”

  “Bye Jaz. I’m here at the front entrance to the hospital. Let the press have at me.” I leave the driver what time I’m scheduled to be done, and exit, trying not to limp.

  Hours later, saddened by all those sick little kids with a shit-load of bad luck, I head back to Brooklyn while posting pictures on Instagram. Their funny comments cheer me up and make me realize how good I really have it.

  When my brother comes home I give him a chance to shake off the snow before I tell him my plan. He’s not at all happy but after a few drinks promises to draw up some contracts to keep me and my money safe.

  “Tell me again why she’s agreed to this?” He hands me his twenty-dollar pen and I sign.

  “I told you. She got kicked out of her apartment by a fucker of a boyfriend. He had the lease, and stole all her stuff. The wedding was her idea. I swear I just offered to help her out. Our first date is Friday night. Jaz is tweeting it out to the paparazzi.”

  Maybe she’ll change her mind about everything. That woul
d probably be for the best because if she comes home with me, I’m definitely getting into her pants. When I want a woman, I get her.

  I picture her blond hair all messy on my pillow her legs spread wide, and her jeans on the floor. I’ll make her beg for it. When I finally give her what she needs, the bed post will bang against the wall as she screams out my name and I fuck her into oblivion.

  Chapter 9

  Tonight’s my first date with my soon to be fiancé, CJ Quinn. I check myself in the mirror for the hundredth time and glance at the time on my cell phone. Okay, so he’s got the body of a Greek god, there’s no need to freak out, right?

  It doesn’t help that his cock goes hard every time I sink my fingers into his firm muscles. He doesn’t even try to hide it and just smirks at my heated face.

  I almost wish he’d try to make a move so I can smack him down but he’s polite as hell. Now, I’ve made it a personal challenge to be professional with him but it’s tough. First off, all I have to wear are these damn hand-me-down t-shirts with the thin fabric. More than once I’ve had to borrow a sweater to keep my nipples from showing.

  Mr. Hotshot misses nothing and blatantly stares at my chest whenever he gets the chance which just makes matters worse.

  Sexually frustrated at the end of the day, I leave him attached to the electronic pulsing machine while I hit the thrift store on Atlantic Ave. I buy two new dresses, four shirts, and some much-needed underwear. At the last minute, I find this sexy black sweater-dress for five bucks.

  Yeah, I know CJ said he would buy me clothes for his endless photo ops but that’s a slippery slope. When do you say you don’t owe the guy a blow job? I may be broke but I’m not a fucking whore.

  Back at rehab, where I said we’d meet up, I stop and stare at a crowd gathering around the door wondering who died. Someone shouts and suddenly I’m surrounded by twenty people with microphones and cameras shoved in my face.

  “Ms. Sanders? Melanie? Is it true you’ve moved in with CJ?”

  “Is it true you’re homeless?”