by Teagan Kade
“And you’re looking for a minivan?”
That magnetic smile again. “Not quite.” He sees someone approaching. “I believe that’s my cue.”
Phoenix arrives beside him, arm around his shoulder. “Thanks for keeping her company, little brother.”
“Any time. Nice to meet you, Heather.”
“Likewise.”
Nolan drifts away and Phoenix stands before me in a dark navy suit and matching bowtie to his brother. He looks like a man on his mission, a younger James Bond with eyes to kill.
And thrill, my head adds.
“You look absolutely incredible,” he tells me, surveying the dress.
“You can thank Erin for that.”
He leans close, whispering into my ear. “I’m pretty sure you’d look incredible without it.”
“Play your cards right,” I whisper back, conscious of the spicy hint of his cologne, “and maybe you’ll find out.”
He murmurs as he pulls back, smiling and extending his arm out. “Care for a tour?”
I hook my arm through his. “I’d be delighted.”
It really is remarkable. Canapes and drinks are flowing, waiters and waitresses in black and white whisking around the room, neo soul playing in the background. There’s energy in the room. I only hope it translates into much-needed money. The food truck idea has been abandoned. We’re going all out—a new soup kitchen or bust.
We’re moving past the items the Kings have arranged. There’s one of Stone King’s old playbooks, a “bible” Phoenix tells me, akin to putting your left testicle up for sale when you’re a football coach. There’s a baseball signed by the New York Yankees, framed pictures and sporting equipment. I spot a jersey.
“Twenty-three. That’s not…?”
“MJ’s? You bet your ass it is. Going to fetch quite a pretty penny, I imagine.”
I stop in my tracks. “Is that a jock strap?”
Phoenix laughs. “Not just any jock strap. It belongs to a certain NFL superstar who shall remain nameless until the bidding starts. He wore it at the last Superbowl, I believe.”
“People are going to pay money for that?”
“You’ve got a lot to learn about big money, my dear.” He checks his watch. “We’re about to start the human auction. Come see.”
“The what?” I ask in alarm.
“Bit of a surprise. All of us brothers are auctioning an hour of our time.”
“They all agreed.?”
“Even Titus, and trust me, that was a big call given how weird he’s been lately.”
“I’m confused. So you’re prostituting yourselves?” I say it with just a hint of humor.
His hand slides down my back, rests in the shallow depression there while a sudden flood of sexual heat fills the space between my legs. “I can’t speak for the others, but personally I’ll be offering basketball tuition.”
“Ball skills?”
“Not that you have anything to learn in that department.”
He heads away into the crowd and reappears on the makeshift stage that’s been set up against the far wall, taking a microphone from the stand and asking for quiet.
I scan the room and realize I haven’t seen Stone King, recalling Phoenix telling me he probably wouldn’t show, that he’d happily rake in the karma from such an event but never actually make an appearance.
“Now to what you’ve all been waiting for.” Phoenix gestures to the side of the stage. “Boys, if you please.”
The three remaining King brothers emerge onto the stage, each taking a stool. They’re dressed in matching suits, Peyton already working the crowd.
“Up for grabs,” begins Titus, “is an hour with one of these fine specimens, or myself, playing our preferred sport. Word to the wise, that is not lawn bowling, ladies and gentlemen.”
Light laughter sounds.
He walks over to Peyton. “Shall we begin with the troublemaker of the family?” More laughter. “What do you say? Shall we start the bidding at a hundred dollars?”
“Five hundred!” someone shouts.
“Seven hundred!” Another.
“One thousand!
Phoenix sits on Peyton’s lap, one arm around his neck. “One hour with Crestfall’s finest quarterback, soon to be a legend in the NFL. That’s invaluable.”
The bids rise rapidly from there until they hit almost ten-thousand dollars.
For one hour? I think. Phoenix is right. I do have a lot to learn about these people.
After congratulating the winner, Phoenix moves onto Nolan, who brings in eight thousand, and Titus, who seems to outcharm them all at fifteen thousand.
Finally, the stage empty, Phoenix selects a stool. “I suppose that leaves poor old me.” He slaps his chest. “Who wants this? Come on.”
The bids come in fast, Phoenix asking one of the staff members to help him keep track.
He points to the back of the room. “Five large for Danny Stevens down the back. Brother, if you wanted to spend an hour with me, all you had to do was ask.”
More laughter.
I don’t know why, but I’m sweating, nervous.
Phoenix stands. “Come on!” he shouts. “Let me turn you into Kobe. Just give me an hour.”
Four thousand.
Five thousand.
Six.
Seven.
I can’t believe it.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
“Twenty-thousand dollars!”
The room goes quiet, everyone looking to the gentleman in the corner.
Phoenix looks out to find the bidder. Even he looks surprised. “Did someone say twenty thousand?” He finds the bidder. “For you, John?”
This ‘John’ pulls a girl close, the ‘Ferrari’ Nolan pointed out earlier. “Only because my daughter told me to, and hell, I’m feeling generous tonight.”
There’s wild applause. I join in but can’t help feeling a tinge of jealously as I look at the girl kissing her father on the check, mouthing ‘Thanks, Daddy.’
“You better treat her right!” yells John, to generous laughter.
Someone hands Phoenix a ‘Sold’ sticker, which he promptly slaps on his chest. “Twenty thousand dollars, ladies and gentleman.”
More applause and catcalling, Phoenix taking a bow and exiting the stage.
Phoenix finds me. I try to swipe the green monster away and smile. “Twenty thousand dollars, hey?”
“Would you believe we’ve raised almost one hundred thousand so far, and the night’s just getting started.”
I have no words. “That’s… amazing.”
He kisses me on the side of the head, seems completely pumped up. “You’re damn right it is.”
The energy is infectious. I give him a playful slap on the ass. “Off you go then.”
“Yes, boss lady.”
He moves away and I’m suddenly struck by how lonely you can feel surrounded by a sea of people.
I decide to go the bathroom and freshen up. It’s more of an excuse to stretch my legs than anything else.
I catch more than one guy looking me over and have to admit there’s a guilty pleasure in it, in being desirable. All these years I’ve done my best to dress down, to avoid attention, but here I am doing quite the opposite—not intentionally, but the admiration is oddly welcome all the same.
Even when I look at myself in the bathroom mirror it’s hard to recognize the face staring back. Gone is the stress, the lines of worry and sunken eyes. A new, brighter Heather has emerged.
But don’t you dare forget where you came from, I remind myself. You have an obligation.
I think to everyone freezing under that bridge less than twenty minutes away and almost want to scream, but I keep it to myself.
I hear a familiar voice as I turn into the hallway exiting the bathroom. I round the corner expecting to find Phoenix, and he’s there, but he’s not alone.
Stone’s there, though hardly dressed for the occasion in his team jacket and track
pants. He’s with a guy I vaguely recognize as Phoenix’s agent. Jamie, was it? It’s hard to tell from this distance.
I pull myself back out of sight, but I can still hear their voices.
“I need more time.” It’s Phoenix. “It’s not an easy decision.”
Stone: “It’s not going to be any decision if you don’t hurry the hell up.”
The agent: “Listen to your father, Phoenix. I’m begging you. I need an answer and I need it right now.”
My skin starts to crawl. They’re ganging up on him.
Stay out of it, I warn myself. He can handle himself.
“Now,” Stone repeats. “We need an answer now, son. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now.”
The warning in his voice is clear.
There’s a pregnant pause before Phoenix speaks again. “Actually,” he starts, “I was thinking of taking a bit of a sabbatical from the game, clear my head.”
Stone loses it. “A fucking sabbatical? Can you hear yourself?”
“Easy,” Phoenix warns. “Just a break. The offers aren’t going anywhere.”
“Like hell!” Stone bellows.
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this. I go to walk away but there’s a rush of women heading to the bathroom, blocking the way out.
The agent’s trying to intervene. “Phoenix, those offers won’t necessarily still be around months from now. You know how the game is, how quickly a star can fade, so give us something. I’m begging you.”
“I’ll have a decision by Monday. How’s that work for you two?” He sounds reluctant.
Stone goes to say something, but the agent interrupts him. “Sounds like a plan, but no more goose-footing around, got it? Come to me, tell me what team you’ve decided on, and we’ll make you a superstar.”
There’s a murmur I can’t make out, footsteps echoing down the hall. I take the opportunity to leave now the path has cleared, surprised at how fast my heart is beating once I’m back in the hall.
I almost scream when someone taps me on the shoulder. Phoenix catches me with one arm. “Hey, you all good?”
I force a smile. “Couldn’t be better. Pity your dad couldn’t come.”
Phoenix rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “Yeah, guess the old man had more important things to do.”
Damn, I think. So Stone’s visit was for Phoenix alone. He must be desperate.
Phoenix takes my hand. “Come on. I’m not done showing you off yet.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PHOENIX
The auction is a success. I knew it would be, but it has exceeded my expectations. Already we’ve made enough to cover the building for the soup kitchen and a year’s worth of operating costs.
Heather’s naturally pleased as punch, took the opportunity to run around the venue thanking Alissa and my brothers one by one.
Peyton draws to a stop beside me, swipes a glass of champagne off one of the waiters passing by. He sips and holds the glass up. “Mmm, you really spared no expense.”
“You can thank our dear father for that.”
“Notably absent, of course.
“Of course,” I concur.
Peyton scans the room. “I have to say, this is damn impressive, bro. You must really have a thing for this girl—more than a boner, by the looks of it.”
I change the subject. “I didn’t catch who won you in the auction?”
Peyton tucks his hand under his arm and sips again before speaking. “Some Crestfall football fanatic.”
“Male or female?”
“Male, thank Christ. Erin would go all green-eyed if I picked up a hottie like you.”
I sigh. “Ah, yes. Bria. That’s going to be fun.”
Peyton picks up on the sarcasm, smiling. “At least she won’t spend the whole session hassling you for plays and picking your brain on the best way to build muscle, or maybe you’ll be showing her a muscle of a different kind…”
I lower my voice. “Not a chance. She’s not my type.”
“She’s got a vagina and a face, doesn’t she?”
“I’ve changed.”
He bellows. “Bullshit.”
I stab a finger into his shoulder. “Says the only King brother who’s put a ring on it.”
He nods slowly. “I’ll pay that. Why, what’s this other girl offering that’s so special? And don’t tell me it’s because she can put her legs behind her head, because that shit, nice as it is, is no foundation for a solid relationship.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” I tease, “but she’s different than the usual riff-raff around here. She’s intelligent,” I tap my head, “street smart. She has more life experience than the rest of Crestfall combined.”
Peyton’s eyes drift behind me. “Speaking of the riff-raff…” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Good luck,” he says, spinning and heading back into the crowd.
“Can’t believe I won.”
I try not to let Bria see me grimace as I turn around, attempting to look cordial. After all, she—or her father—did pay a significant amount of money to spend time with me. “Neither can I, but congrats. I imagine you want to set up a time to play?”
She slinks sideways, pressing her chest out and twisting her lips together. “Mmm, ‘play.’ I like the sound of that.”
“Ball,” I correct.
She brings up a finger, tracing it down my chest and tapping once against my waistband. “I prefer the contact sports myself, but I couldn’t pass up the offer.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. This is going to be painful.
I see Heather watching from the back of the room. She’s talking to someone from the Academy, diverting her attention between us. I put my arm behind Bria’s back and gently guide her to the side of the room out of Heather’s sight. I want to get this over with. “So, about that time…”
“I’m good the next few days if you are.”
“Sunday afternoon, school gym. Does that work?”
“I’ll be there with bells on,” she trills, “or maybe nothing at all.”
I don’t have patience for the flirt-fest. I’ve got bigger things on my mind, read: the looming decision that going to affect my entire future. Bria and her female hard-on’s the last thing I want to deal with.
I point randomly back to the crowd. “I’ve got to get back to it, but I’ll see you Sunday, yes?”
“It’s a date,” she replies, but I’m already moving and weaving my way to the other side of the room to find Heather.
She wraps up the conversation she’s in and moves over to me. “How’s Miss All That?”
“Thinks she’s in Bring It On,” I tell her.
“Is she going to behave, or do I have to go all crazy girlfriend on her?”
I squint, looking into Heather’s eyes. “Holy shit, is that jealousy I see in there? Because you are looking a little green.”
She shoves me. For the first time tonight, I notice she’s removed her nose ring. “If anyone’s looking green tonight it’s your better half.”
I follow to her eyes to where Titus is leaning against a wall looking like he’s going to puke.
“One too many canapes, I’d say.”
“I’m not jealous,” she tells me, returning to the Bria situation. “Honestly.”
“I know.”
“But I am tired. I think I’m going to head home, let you Kings wine and dine and do what you do.”
“My brothers can do what we do. I’m driving you home.”
“How much have you had to drink?” she asks.
“Not a drop. Thought it best I had my full faculties tonight.”
“Restraint,” she nods. “I like that.”
I want to rush forward to sweep her away to the nearest bedroom. Hell, a dark corner would do, but I use the aforementioned restraint to hold back. “Don’t go teasing me now.”
“My god, is that all you think about?”
I wish it were that simple at the moment, but that damn decision that’s hanging over my head keeps barging in an
d making a mess of the place.
I take her hand. “Come on. Let’s blow this joint.”
Heather can’t seem to stop talking about the auction on the way home. I try to remain upbeat, to join in the conversation when I can, but the decision that was pressing before has become an all-out assault. It’s preoccupying me completely. I know Heather has sensed my shift in mood, doesn’t seem to mind I’ve stopped answering her questions.
By the time we pull up I’ve gone from the high of the auction to a new low considering how in the flying fuck I’m going to deal with this nightmare. Either way I go, there are consequences. There’s no easy answer. I don’t want to play, but the fallout from giving it up would be brutal.
It reminds me of a quote my father used to roll out when we were younger and didn’t want to work out: What comes easy won’t last. What lasts won’t come easy.
But there’s more to it this time than a better body. Everything is at stake.
“You okay?” Heather asks as we enter her place.
I’ve got a headache. “I don’t want to get into it right now.”
“I’m going to go freshen up. You good out here?”
“Sure.”
She disappears and I find myself drifting to the kitchen my head still swimming into thought.
Almost automatically, I open the pantry and sum up the ingredients there, start grabbing things and putting together a mental list.
Soon I’m weighing out ingredients and suddenly those thoughts diminish.
It’s only when I’m reaching for the mixer I realize I’m making cookies.
It’s weird how baking has become my go-to when I’m stressed. There’s something calming about the process of it—‘procrastibaking’ I heard someone call it.
If you had told me a few weeks ago I’d enjoy this kind of thing I would have slapped you in the fucking face, but here I am deciding the ratio of brown sugar to castor and whether the butter’s soft enough for creaming.
Heather enters the kitchen wrapped in a towel, drying off her hair with another. “Not what I expected.”
I’m busy rolling the doughballs and placing them onto a baking sheet. “You don’t like it when I bake, or you don’t like my baking?”