After we switch, and I pitch to Hudson a little, I kick the dirt off my cleats. “All right, man, I have to go study. Have an exam for my Revolutionary War and Early American Establishments course tomorrow.”
Hudson rolls his eyes. “Boone, man, you don’t need to study. You’re going to make millions of dollars as a ballplayer.”
I smile and wave as I walk backward, away from him. “And if I don’t, I’ll have a teaching degree to fall back on.”
How do you tell someone that you have to get a degree because your father never had one? How do you explain that by his lack of education, and being laid off at the age of fifty-five, he can’t get a job but can’t afford to retire? How do you detail the number of professional athletes who actually go pro, and of those who do, how many have a career-ending injury and have nothing to fall back on?
You can’t. No one understands this until they’re living in it. Until they have to watch their mother work three jobs to support their family. Until they see her physically pick her husband up off the couch for the fifth night in a row because he’s too drunk to make it to bed.
That’s what I lived with, well, still live with. Except now, I don’t have to see it every day. Dad lost his job at the local oil plant halfway through my senior year. Actually, about a month after my breakup with Annabelle. Jesus, what shitty timing.
He’d gotten the job straight out of high school, didn’t have anything but his diploma and two nickels to rub together. He’d worked his way up over the years, became a foreman, was a senior guy on the team. All until the plant was bought out and his salary was deemed too high for his position, which believe me, he didn’t make nearly as much as he deserved. But, they laid him off, replacing him with some twenty-year-old just like me who would take half the pay.
My father sank into a deep depression, especially after a job search with no college degree at fifty-five left him essentially no options. He began to drink. All. The. Time. There wasn’t a day that second half of senior year, or since, that I didn’t come home to him halfway drowned in a whiskey bottle.
Thank God that I’d gotten scholarships and that I’d been drafted and would soon sign a deal. Being a student-athlete essentially prevented me from getting any kind of job, and the only reason my family has stayed afloat is because my mom is a fucking warrior. She’s kept the lights on and food on the table. And just like always, there was scarce little other money to go around.
But all of that would change now. I would be making money. I would be able to contribute. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to get Dad sober. To shove it in his face that I hadn’t given up, like him. And that even if I didn’t make it in the major leagues, I would still have a college degree to fall back on.
I would succeed either way.
Fourteen
Annabelle
I’m disgusted by myself. For letting Boone kiss me, letting him take over.
He’d always been the strong but silent type. People mistook him for a pushover or not that interesting, when really, there was all of this barely controlled masculinity just under the surface. He might play the shy guy, might let people believe he was just a focused baseball player, but he had an agenda of his own. Always.
I had to push him away after he had completely robbed me of breath or thought. I’d made a horrible mistake. Instead of showing him how much he’d hurt me back, I’d opened myself up too wide. He’d seen the vulnerability and gotten the upper hand. How could I be so stupid?
Sucking a breath in, I mentally go through the mantra I’ve been chanting to myself since Kenneth Kutch’s assistant emailed me with a meeting date two days ago. He’d had something open up in his calendar, and could I come in for the conversation he wanted to have with me?
I couldn’t say no, but I thought I would have more time to mentally prepare myself.
The mantra plays over and over in my head. Cold as ice, cold as ice.
If I could steel myself to any kind of emotion, especially nerves, I would appear confident and capable.
I have only ever been to the headquarters for the Flipping Channel two times before. Once, when I signed my intern paperwork and took a drug test. And second, to negotiate my contract to actually appear on the show. What I got to stand in front of the camera and provide design advice for Ramona was chump change compared to the dollars this place was shelling out to its stars.
Walking into the boardroom, I make sure to leave my hands by my side, not wipe them on my skirt. Giving off the appearance of one hundred percent confidence often gives me one hundred percent confidence. I practically invented faking it until you make it.
Kenneth Kutch sits at the head of the white-washed farmhouse conference table. The room is done in a modern classic design, with traditional Texas wood decor mixed with modern light fixtures and geometric vases lining every surface.
Kenneth is the power and influence behind the Flipping Channel. He started with two TV shows in the eighties and a bunch of filler content from the Home and Garden Channel which had been around for much longer. And slowly, he’s built the home of Ramona and James’ show into one of the most watched channels on TV.
He has money, a cast of contracting and design stars, a wife thirty years younger than him and a penchant for surprising the hell out of the network with whatever idea came to his mind next.
And hopefully, his next idea has something to do with me.
“Ms. Mills, thank you for coming in.” He stands, shaking my hand.
I nod. “Thank you for asking me to come in.”
The less I say, the better. Let him think I am doing him a favor. If you act like the boss, others will see it, subconsciously, and respect you.
He motions for me to sit and launches right into it.
“Are you happy on the show?”
I’m a little surprised he asks that, that he wants to know. “Yes, I am. It’s a huge accomplishment for me to be on such a successful show at my age. I learn a lot from James and Ramona, and I love what we do. Obviously, interior design is my passion. I’m very happy on the show.”
Kenneth nods slowly, eyeing me like a panther circling its prey. I shiver slightly, and I hope he doesn’t see it. Something is off.
“So, you would be opposed to going in a different direction …” It’s a question and statement.
I falter. “I … I’m not sure I follow.”
“Right now, you’re on that wholesome show with James and Ramona. That is their market, they’re pulling in the families and the married couples and conservatives. But when we saw you, we knew how big of a star you’d be.”
I shift uncomfortably … something in the air doesn’t feel right. I can’t put my finger on it, but my hackles are rising.
He folds his hands on the conference table. “We want to make a big splash on the network. Hit the audience with a fresh, sarcastic, sexy show. Wham! We want Annabelle Mills to be in your face, with all of her beauty and decor ideas. Think of it as Texas beauty queen meets demolition princess meets Girls Gone Wild.”
What. The. Fuck. When they approached me about this meeting, I had no idea it would be about having my own show. Nor did I think, when I eventually landed my own show, that I’d have to be a mix of Playboy Bunny and Martha Stewart. I am so not okay with this.
I wish I’d hired an agent or a lawyer to help me with this instead of assuming I could handle absolutely anything. My dad had suggested when I’d signed my first contract for appearing on James and Ramona’s show, that I should get someone to represent me, but I dismissed his worries as foolish. My freaking ego just hadn’t allowed me to admit I needed guidance through this.
“You want me to take my clothes off?” I deadpan.
I should get up and walk out of here, but I stay in the seat.
“No, no! That’s not what we’re saying at all. Just a little leg here, some well-placed shots. The show would be about your design expertise, do not get me wrong. We are very interested in your eye for interiors. But the network n
eeds new blood. And we think you could liven it up. We’re prepared to offer you a very enticing deal in return for two seasons of the show, with an option for the third. Think of how much exposure this could bring you.”
Exposure.
The most important thing to make my mother sit up and take notice. I’d be headlining a show, one that would hopefully garner a lot of attention.
“I’m open to entertaining it. Can I see something in writing?” I counter him because I’m not stupid.
He chuckles. “Smart girl. We’ll have something drawn up. The whole process of contract negotiation, branding, show direction … it’ll be months before we even start shooting. But, I think this could be a huge hit. We’ll be in touch.”
He was dismissing me, and I took the hint. I rose, thanking him and starting for the conference room door.
“And, Annabelle?” I turn at his voice. “Don’t mention this conversation to James and Ramona.”
That can’t be anything good.
Fifteen
Boone
Hudson hands me a shot, and I wave him off.
I can almost taste the slick burn of it sliding down my throat.
It’s been a rough week. I had three midterms, God, I couldn’t believe it was actually almost March and I’d been here for going on three months. And we’d had a special trainer in from Florida, one who works at the spring training facility for the big Texas team, and he almost killed our team. He had us running, squatting, jumping, throwing and hitting until we practically threw up. This guy was of the mind that baseball players needed to be just as in shape as athletes that ran around fields nonstop for three hours.
My body hurt, my mind hurt, and I wanted to drown it all away in alcohol so badly. But my past held me back. Becoming my father held me back.
Instead, I head out to the dance floor when he tells me to follow him, thinking tonight might be a good opportunity to burn off some stress with sex. I haven’t had it in a while, and my right hand was getting awfully familiar. My cock tingles at the idea of sinking into something warm and tight.
Yes, that is just the kind of relief I need.
I find a willing partner rather quickly, a blonde so short that her ass barely reaches my hips even though she’s wearing spiky heels. I take hold of her waist, backing her up into me, and let myself feel the beat of the song. Her hands begin to explore behind her back, up and down my thighs, over my zipper as we grind, and up until they lace around my neck.
My dick hardens on natural instinct, having not been given attention from a female in a good minute. I caress her smooth skin, get lost in the moment and the music. There is nothing like being in a dark, crowded, loud place to make your inhibitions suspend for a little while.
“Whoops.” A cold splash of something runs down my right pant leg.
I jump, startled from the wetness and thrown off because of what I was just imagining doing to this nameless stranger.
I look to my right, and there is Annabelle with an evil grin dancing on her lips.
“Oh my God! I’m soaked!” The blonde cries out over the boom of the music. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
She’s glaring at Annabelle, who has the fakest look of innocence on her face I’ve ever seen. Besides that, she looks fucking edible. Christ, I’m mad that I’m hard right now because my balls tighten, and I have to suck in a breath from the electric shock that moves down my spine just looking at her. She’s wearing a dress so short that it might as well be a shirt, with a neckline that rises high onto her slim column of neck. I know that if she turns around, the dress will scoop so low in the back that it will give away almost everything. I just have a feeling. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a tumble of curls, and she looks like sex on heels.
I’ve always secretly loved that she’s almost the same height as me in those teetering, spiked shoes. Almost like she’s a formidable opponent to my tall height.
“It was an accident, I swear.” Her devilish smirk says it was anything but.
The blonde looks up at me in disgust. Does she think I was in on this or something?
“You really are the fucking devil.” I glower at Annabelle.
My dance partner runs off in search of a paper towel and her friends, and we’re left in a stare down on the dance floor.
Annabelle sways from her buzz and the beat. “In the flesh, baby.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Can’t you see that I don’t want to be around you! Just leave me alone.” My blood pressure is climbing, and I’m furious.
She’s always fucking with my head. Always causing shit and then acting like she hasn’t done a thing.
“That’s fine, go dance on sluts all night. What do I care?”
Clearly, she cares, or she wouldn’t have come over here and started yelling at me about it. Always drama with Annabelle. She looks wild, one too many drinks in her, and I’m not in the mood. Something in the air tonight is making me horny and ticked off instead of happy and flirty … not that I’m ever really happy and flirty. But her being here, cockblocking me even if I didn’t actually intend to take that girl home, is casting a dark cloud over the whole night.
“Anna, I think you should calm down.” Harper appears beside her.
“Get crazy here out of my face.” I shoot Harper a warning, that I am about to snap on Annabelle at any point.
“Crazy? Yeah, that’s me. Drama, right? You’re so pathetic, Boone Graham.” Anna flicks up her middle finger.
“Says the drunk girl yelling at the guy whose heart she broke in a crowded club. Talk about pathetic.” I wave her off and begin to walk away.
Right out the doors, past the small line gathered outside, of girls in tight dresses and dudes in button-downs waiting to get inside.
Speed walking around the corner, I try very hard to take deep breaths in and out of my nose. My hands shake, and I feel dizzy, and I’m the only person in that club that didn’t drink a drop of alcohol.
Her voice comes at me as soon as I get around the back to where my car is parked.
“Just walk away, right? That’s what your best at!”
The muscles in my back ripple with tension and barely-there restraint. “And being a selfish brat is what you’re best at, right?”
She’s clacking toward me in those heels, all hellfire and venom. I back up, the quiet, dark back parking lot desolate aside from our pissing match. “Why did you kiss me the other night?”
“You started it!” I throw my hands up.
Annabelle scoffs. “And then radio silence. Takes what he wants and slinks away, ghosting me.”
It’s almost as if she’s talking to herself, but the words bruise my heart. How could we have hurt each other so badly in such a short amount of time all those years ago?
“What is it that you want from me, Annabelle? You want attention?” I practically roar, so pissed off at this point that I might haul off and punch the brick building beside us.
“Well, you never gave it to me before, so who knows what that even feels like?” Annabelle still has that smug grin on her face.
“Will you just shut the fuck up?”
My patience, what’s left of it, snaps. I’m so annoyed and turned-on and furious and head over heels crazy when it comes to this girl that I can’t even see straight.
I push her up against the building, the brick cutting into my right palm and probably into her back. My left hand grips her chin roughly and I’m a goner, pushing my tongue into her mouth even as I swallow her protest. I’m pretty sure Annabelle slaps me on the arm, hard enough to make a smacking sound echo off the pavement, but she’s scaling me, wrapping her legs around my waist, so I don’t stop.
“I hate you,” I hiss as my lips latch onto her neck, laying fire to her skin as I press her into the wall.
“I hate me, too.” Her sentence barely registers before she pulls my shirt up and over my head, leaving me bare-chested.
My hands are under her dress, seeking her heat. When I
find her lacy underwear, I push them aside with two fingers and sink them deep into her.
“Oh, God!” Annabelle cries, fully hanging on me now as I fuck her with my hand.
Adrenaline and lust are going off like bombs inside me, my heart rate gallops like a racehorse about to have an embolism. I can’t suck in enough air. I’m surrounded by her, and while I feel like I’m drowning, I also feel like I’m living for the first time in years.
“If you don’t get in my car right now, I’m going to fuck you right here in public,” I growl, my fingers still stroking inside her.
She makes an unintelligible noise, unwinding her legs from where I hold them at my waist. I pause to gaze at her for just a second.
Mussed hair, sex-bitten lips, the neck of her dress askew. Wild eyes, drunk limbs, lust personified.
There is no evil this woman could do to make me not want her. She’s cheated on me, taunted me, been hateful and cold. And still, I know where this will end. With my cock buried deep inside of her in my back seat.
Annabelle Mills is my biggest weakness, and I’m giving up trying to stop myself from giving in.
I grab her hand and pull her with me, struggling to wrench my keys free from my pocket because of the tent my dick has created in my jeans.
When I finally unlock it, I command her,
“Take your underwear off and get in the car.”
Sixteen
Annabelle
It’s always the quiet ones.
I knew it would be this way. I’ve been with other guys before. Boastful guys, egotistical ones who were more like show ponies in the sack than actual thoroughbreds. I would try to get out of my own head, to take the lead and be the ice queen and take my pleasure. Because they certainly weren’t focused on what felt good for me.
You’re the One I Don’t Want Page 6