Gavin snorted. “They’re fucked-up because nobody living in Westhampton is taking the LIRR on a regular basis, genius. Like I said, that’s why the position is meant to be live-in. Deal with it, or buy a car of your own. You can use the Altima or the Wrangler for errands, but you’re not keeping one of my rides overnight in Queens.”
“Oh. Great. So what am I supposed to do?”
“Figure it out. You’re the one who made this difficult by deciding to commute.” Gavin pushed away from the counter. “What you need to understand about this job is that you have no personal life while you’re working for me. You have no plans. I am your top priority. And considering how much money you fought Joe for, arguing that point is pretty much a joke.”
“I’ll be spending most of that money on cabs,” I protested. “Or else I’ll have to hang around here forever waiting for trains. How am I supposed to—”
“Save it.” He turned away and headed out of the kitchen. “I need you here in the morning, so you’ll be here in the morning. Your salary ensured it’s not negotiable.”
I had an overwhelming urge to tell him he was being an unreasonable ass, but I swallowed it. He was doing this on purpose. He had to be. Either because he really had a stick up his ass about the print on the contract or because he was trying to see if he could get me to quit.
Either way, I wasn’t going to let him win. I’d do everything he asked for, and more. And I’d be a rock star in the process. Gavin would have no choice but to take me on for the full six months once I aced the hell out of whatever jerkish tests he threw at me.
I looked at my sweaty, flustered reflection in the shiny, black screen embedded in his refrigerator—because apparently a 4K TV needed to be there—and gave a firm nod.
“You can do this. You’ve overcome worse odds, Noah. Get it together.”
With that affirmation hitting the air, I hurried out the room and after Gavin.
I was determined for it to be a good day.
***
Gavin
Noah wasn’t having a good day.
First, Simeon had been right. Noah had shown up late seriously looking like a mega fuckable Clark Kent. That had been mistake number one. I wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress with his office job outfit, but I’d have been a lot happier if he’d arrived in nothing at all. I’d never been into the whole geek thing before, but his lean body, thick, dark hair, and square-rimmed glasses did it for me. I wanted to fuck him while he was wearing them and see if they fell off his face.
This was a reoccurring thought while he speed-walked after my longer strides, scribbling on a notepad as I told him what I expected from him for the day.
His second problem was thinking I was going to readjust my expectations because he’d been late. The look on his face when I’d corrected that assumption would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so pathetic. Noah had a tendency to flush when he was angry, and I enjoyed watching the rosy color spread across his face and beneath his collar.
I left him to figure out a grocery list. Judging by the fact that he was barely a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet, I was willing to bet he had no clue how to feed a guy whose career depended on keeping his muscle mass and weight up. I pounded three or four servings of chicken or fish per meal. And he was so flustered that he hadn’t even asked about ordering groceries online.
Being petty wasn’t usually my style, but I didn’t mind when it came to showing a stuck-up fuckboy a thing or two. Even if that thing or two amounted to nothing more than how many times his ass would have to run to the store before he had me stocked up for a solid week.
I synced my phone with the surround-sound system, and showered with music blasting loud enough to drown out the noise in my head. Training camp started today, and I wasn’t there. I’d tried to ignore the date and tune out the knowledge, but it was an impossibility. All forms of media were in a lather, gushing about warriors preparing for a season of battles. I loved the game, but the coverage killed me every season.
If it wasn’t for every news outlet making out like football players were untouchable heroes, the veterans would be a lot less insufferable. It was always the long-time pros who wrapped themselves in the bullshit cloak of that honor—not backup players or a few of the special teams guys who were just thrilled to have a job.
The whole media circus was why guys like Noah scorned me. I was sure it didn’t help that athletes were often hyper-as-fuck homophobic and toxic.
I pressed my forehead against the tiled wall and let the jets of multiple showerheads pound into my back. The cold water felt good on my sore muscles. I’d worked out too hard without a proper warm-up, and now I’d suffer. And turn into an even bigger asshole than usual. If there was anything worse than not being able to mow down guys while hauling ass to the end zone, it was not being able to work out. The combination would be killer for my pent-up frustration.
I followed the shower with an ice-cold soak in the tub, and was pissed that I was in so much pain. Taking care of myself should have come naturally, but in high school, college, and the NFL, I’d always had coaches ushering me off to trainers as soon as I so much as winced. They couldn’t cope with the idea of their material getting even a little damaged. My body got them wins and championships, and they couldn’t afford to have it fall apart until I was past thirty. Because in the NFL, being in your midthirties practically makes you a fucking dinosaur.
I fell asleep in the tub and woke up feeling like my nuts had crawled up into my sac, which wasn’t conducive to a cheerful mood.
Climbing out left me feeling about a hundred years old, and my thoughts went right back to the doom of my career in the next decade or so. Getting drafted by the NFL should have been my ticket to freedom, but every year that passed was a reminder that my number would come up soon. If I kept spending the way I had when I’d first signed, all my cash would be spent on stupid-ass cars I didn’t drive and a huge house that I didn’t like living in. I felt the burn of regret every time I walked through the empty rooms, but I’d invested in the damn monstrosity after signing my last contract. Having grown up poor as dirt and in the foster system, I’d gone on a serious YOLO binge after getting my bonus. But I was no fucking Peyton Manning, so the Barons weren’t about to let me limp around the field just because fans were enamored with me.
And now I was being a dick about poor Peyton Manning.
Fuck me. Time for food.
Noah’s glacial ass should have returned by now.
After wrapping a towel around my hips, I took a step out of my bathroom. The security system went wild about two seconds later. It was more my fault than Noah’s for forgetting to tell him it automatically armed once the door locked, but it still royally pissed me off. I stormed downstairs with every intention of reaming him, but his panicked expression almost convinced me to cut him some slack.
Until I saw the five grocery bags at his feet.
With a curt headshake, I brushed past his narrow frame and slid halfway out the door. I wordlessly input the alarm’s code. I turned to find his eyes quickly jerking back up to my face. He’d been checking out my half-naked body. And he was flushing all red again.
“You didn’t give me the PIN,” he said quickly.
“Yeah. I know. You could have called me.”
Noah opened and closed his mouth, clearly looking for a way out of the blame, before frowning. “That’s true. I’m sorry.”
Huh. Surprise, surprise.
Almost disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see him all fired up and self-righteous, I jerked my chin at the grocery bags.
“You were gone for three hours to buy that?”
He glanced down, frowning deeper. “The traffic is insane—”
“Welcome to summertime in the Hamptons.”
“I’d never been to the Hamptons before our meeting, so I didn’t know what to expect,” he said sharply. “Anyway, it took me an hour to get there and another one to get back, and the store was massive. I didn�
�t even know what you wanted. Your guidelines were pretty vague.”
“Vague? I’m not picky, baby. Just a few chicken breasts, bacon, an avocado or nine, and I’m good to go for lunch.”
His jaw dropped. “A few chicken breasts for lunch?”
“Your serving size is a third of mine.”
His mouth seemed to gape wider. It was giving me really nasty ideas.
“Man, I’d love to be able to eat like that.”
And there went my admiration for his pretty lips.
“It’s not a fun hobby, kid. Eating is a job for me. A chore. I have to force-feed myself to keep my weight up to two-sixty. My body type is naturally lanky, so it’s a struggle to not be a beanpole like you. Then I’d be trampled by the D line all across the goddamn field.”
“First,” Noah said flatly, “I’m not a beanpole. Second, I don’t know what a D line is. Dick line? Seems like there must be a lot of those on the field, so good luck to you.”
My mouth pressed into a tight line. I wasn’t going to laugh at his ignorance. I was not.
“Defensive linemen.”
“I see.” Noah rolled his eyes and snagged the bags from the floor. “Welp, I got enough chicken for lunch, and you can make yourself some fish for dinner.”
“What about breakfast?”
He paused with a Subway sandwich bag in his hand. “I’ll have to go back tomorrow morning. I’ll get here on time and be back from the store by the time you finish your workout. I swear.”
“Uh-huh.” I pointed at the Subway bag. “And what is that?”
“My lunch?”
“Wha—” I was confused. I’d assumed he’d eat whatever he cooked for me. Was that not how this worked? Maybe not. And I didn’t want him thinking I was trying to be nice. Except, he’d already caught on to my confusion and had cocked his head. “I see,” I said. I chewed on several follow-up responses before snapping, “Well, it’s already almost one o’clock, and I need you to do all the other shit on that list before five. Don’t forget. And call me when lunch is ready. I’ll be in my room. Remember—you were the one who wanted to be paid extra for cooking.”
He sneered at me with genuine animosity and turned away.
You had to love a sexy-ass geek with an attitude.
Chapter Five
Noah
“I have five vehicles I need to be serviced, and I was really hoping I could get them all done by the end of the day.”
“End of the day? Not gonna happen.”
I paced the cavernous garage and cast an evil eye at the shining, and likely untouched, vehicles that were causing me so much trouble. I’d avoided the garage for the last few days, mostly because I hadn’t known where to start, but it was already the end of the first week of my probationary period and it would be a major fail if I ignored the task.
“What about if we start today and finish tomorrow? My boss wants them done, like yesterday, and I don’t even know how I’m transporting them all to you.”
“Drive them back and forth. How else?” The guy on the other end of the line sounded amused. “Does he have a driver? Housekeeper?”
“No. Just me.”
“Huh.” Given the amount of mystification in the mechanic’s tone, it was clear he was used to having filthy-rich clients with a number of house staff. “All right, what are we looking at?”
I rattled off the makes and models of each vehicle, cringed when he told me he didn’t work with motorcycles, but internally cheered when I realized the Phantom and Wrangler hadn’t been driven often enough to need servicing. I pleaded for twenty minutes before he exasperatedly told me he could try to get three vehicles done by the end of the day, and told me to start with the Maybach. My relief lasted for all of five minutes. Then I realized this involved me driving an extremely expensive car into town on the congested highway.
Chewing on my lower lip, I stared at the Maybach for more time than I had before speed-walking across the enormous property to find Gavin where I’d last seen him. The pool. He was still swimming laps when I got there, wearing nothing but a teeny tiny pair of briefs. His huge arms cut giant swaths through the crystal blue water with each stroke.
“What are you still doing here?”
Lost in the reverie of my panicked thoughts, I’d totally missed that Gavin had climbed out of the pool. He towered above me, dripping all over the stone walkway.
“Um, are you supposed to submerge that thing in water for long periods of time?” I asked, pointing at his ankle monitor. “Because . . .”
“It’s waterproof.”
“Like, shower waterproof or . . . swim-around-in-your-Olympic-sized-pool waterproof?”
Gavin pushed wet hair out of his face. “I’ve worn it while falling asleep in the bath. It’s fine. If it malfunctioned, it’d show up as me fucking with it and the cops would rock up to my gate.”
“Oh.” I stared at it, paranoid. “Are you—”
“What do you want?”
“God, sorry. I just wanted to tell you that I’m about to take the Maybach to get serviced.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“Look, I’m worried about driving it. What if I get in a wreck?”
“I have insurance,” he said, looking at me oddly. “And why would you get in a wreck?”
“Because I’ve never driven a Maybach.”
“It’s just a car. You drove the Altima without a problem, other than apparently pumping molasses into it, if I go by how long you take to come back whenever I send you to do something.”
I ground my teeth together. “The Altima is one thing. I’m just not the most experienced driver, and—”
“You have a license. You told me you could drive.”
“Look, I’m a born-and-raised New Yorker. We don’t really drive. I can get from Point A to Point B, and you’re—”
“So, you’re saying I should hire someone who doesn’t piss themselves at the thought of driving.” At my silence, Gavin ran a hand through his wet hair while pinning me with an impatient death stare. “Right? That’s what you’re saying?”
“No,” I spat out, still gritting my teeth. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good. Then get it done. And I need some grooming.” Gavin squeezed water out of his hair. “Get a barber to come around.”
“Who—”
“Just find someone.”
We stared at each other, and I wondered if my visible panic was causing me to lose every ounce of credibility I’d struggled to gain in the past few days. Not that I’d gained much. I’d been late every morning, and he’d been giving me his icy glares ever since. I knew he’d ride my ass even harder if he knew the thought of making decisions about the types of people who would enter his house and touch anything from his grass to his hair was giving me an ulcer.
But considering the hostility in his gaze the longer I kept him from his swim, it seemed like a bad time to double-check. Again.
“Okay. I’ll be back.”
Gavin turned away with a mutter, and I retreated to the garage. With no small amount of trepidation, I grabbed the keys to the Maybach and slipped inside. Despite the higher mileage, the interior still smelled like leather. I was almost certain I was the first person to drive it since it’d last been detailed, which meant he had three vehicles he barely drove. Did he just buy this stuff because it was in the Professional-Athlete-and-Newly-Minted-Millionaire manual? Considering he acted like his every belonging was a huge inconvenience, I suspected he had.
I drove to Bianchi’s Imports & Auto Care at a speed of fifteen miles per hour. It was good to see that even amid the land of rich and famous, people were not too hoity-toity to flip me off. No less than four people snarled at me through their windows. I couldn’t hear the cursing, but it was easy enough to read their lips. I did us both the favor of not responding. And when I say “both” I’m referring to me and the poor car. It was a beautiful machine and I was completely unworthy when it came to driving it.
It was al
most one in the afternoon once I’d crawled my way through the traffic, and Bianchi’s was packed with import cars. I’d expected a sleek shop with marble floors and mechanics in designer uniforms, so tattooed guys and girls with grease-stained clothes were a welcome sight.
Normal people. My people.
I felt unselfconscious as I staggered into the office with windblown hair, an unkempt button-down—I’d shoved up the sleeves and undone the top couple of buttons hours ago—and an undershirt that was fairly saturated with sweat.
“Hey, I called earlier about the three vehicles?”
“Yeah, I remember you.” The guy sitting behind the front desk was gorgeous. Light brown hair and pale green eyes. Dreamboat material. “You still bringing in the others?”
“Uh, I have to call a cab to go back and forth. But yeah.”
“Gotcha. We close at eight.”
“Okay, but I leave work at five.”
At that, the guy finally made eye contact with me. He did a double take, gaze flicking over me once, then again, before settling on my face.
“You a PA?”
I nodded.
“Never met a PA who did a nine-to-five.”
“What do they usually do around here?”
“A whenever-and-wherever.”
I started to laugh, but his expression didn’t so much as shift. He was dead-ass serious, which meant that my value was already pretty much nonexistent since I wasn’t giving up my entire life for Gavin. Not that I had much of a life.
“I’m not too good at the PA thing, it turns out. This is my fifth day on the job. I have zero clue as to what I’m doing.”
“Which guy?”
“Ga—an athlete.”
“Gotcha.” The mechanic glanced at his screen again. “You know I’ll see his name when I do the inspections, right? No getting around it.”
“Oh. Duh.” I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m still paranoid about the confidentiality stuff.”
“I get it. But I dunno how PAs do it. It’s bad enough I have to work on their cars while hearing a thousand nit-picky requests and complaints. Being their all-day bitch isn’t for me.”
Illegal Contact (The Barons) Page 6