by Banks, R. R.
Saving Emma
R.R. Banks
Copyright © 2018 by R.R. Banks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Protecting Abigail Sample
About the Author
Also by R.R. Banks
Chapter One
Brice
“So, what position do you play again?”
I take a sip of my scotch and look over at the perky blonde perched on the stool next to me. She's toned, tan, and sexy as hell. She's the exact type of woman I tend to find myself in trouble with.
Gorgeous as she is, she's also a groupie of the succubus type – all too eager to sink her claws into some rich, famous sucker. And given the fact that there are plenty of pro ball players at the hotel this weekend, it's not hard to guess what she’s here for.
It's even easier to figure out that I need to stay far, far away from her.
“I was a quarterback back in the day,” I explain. “But, it's been about ten or eleven years since I played. You’re probably too young to have ever watched me play.”
“Doesn't matter to me,” she purrs, eyeing me up and down like a cat examining its prey. “You're in great shape. I bet you could still go out there and play today.”
A wry grin tugs one corner of my mouth upward. “My knee would have to disagree with you.”
“What did you do to your knee?”
I let out a long breath and take another sip of my drink. All I want is to be left alone and enjoy my drink in silence. These long negotiating sessions with clients take it out of me. Once upon a time, I was Mr. Social. I was always down for a good party. Too much so, really.
Booze, drugs, women – that was my life – the life of an NFL rookie. A young guy with fame, money, and all the freedom he could ever want. Once I left the strict but safe confines of my college campus, I went a bit crazy.
After lighting it up in college, I was a first-round draft pick. I had all the tools to be a successful NFL quarterback. I was going to be one of the greatest to ever play the game. People were calling me the next Favre. The next Brady. I was going to change the game and was already thinking about my speech for when they put my bust alongside the other greats in Canton.
That was the plan, anyway. But, life has a funny way of stepping in and fucking up your plans.
“I blew it out,” I reply. “Tore my ACL, MCL, and dislocated my patella. Suffered some minor nerve damage.”
“Ouch. That sounds like it hurts.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, you could say that.”
She gives me a slow, sultry smile as she slides a hand up my thigh. “You poor baby,” she says. “I know just how to make you feel all better.”
I remove her hand and drop it down in her lap. She looks slightly put off, but there's a determination in her eyes that tells me she's not used to being turned down. She's a stubborn woman – a beautiful woman – who seems accustomed to getting what she wants. And right now, she wants me.
“Are you married?” she asks.
“Do you see a ring on my finger?”
She shrugs. “Not all married guys wear rings on business trips,” she says with an air of authority on the subject.
“That’s probably true,” I say.
“I'm not married,” she says. “No boyfriend either. I'm as free and single as they come.”
“Good for you,” I say. “I'm sure there must be guys lining up for the chance to be with you.”
She shrugs again and races her fingertip down the sleeve of my jacket, her gaze never wavering from mine.
“Maybe,” she says. “But, I'm not looking for just any guy.”
I take her hand and gently set it in her lap again. “Trust me, you're not looking for me either.”
“Don't be so sure about that.”
“Believe me, I'm sure.”
“I'm not,” she purrs.
She places her hand down on my thigh and quickly moves it up my leg. This time, I stop her even faster, dropping her hand back in her lap with a bit more force than before. Her lower lip juts out as she starts to pout. I'm sure she thinks she looks cute, maybe even sexy, but she just looks desperate. Pathetic.
Yeah, maybe there was a time when I would've fucked her just because she was hot, but times change. I’ve changed, and right now, my patience is wearing incredibly fucking thin. After a long, stressful day of meetings, all I wanted was to have a quiet drink and unwind. I didn't want to have to fend off some damn groupie trying to hitch her wagon to the first single guy she finds with money.
I've been around long enough now to know this trap, and I'm definitely not going to fall for her bullshit. I turn on the stool to face the bar and find myself reflected in the mirror behind it. I notice that I look drawn. Pale. I look older, and more bitter than I should at thirty-nine years.
“You seem like a man with a lot on his mind and the world on his shoulders.”
I take another sip of my drink and don't answer, hoping that she'll take the hint and move on. She's not entirely wrong, though. There is a lot on my mind. There always is.
“Why don't you come up to my room?” she asks. “I know I can show you a good time.”
I grit my teeth and turn to face her, my patience finally at an end. “Why don't you leave me the hell alone?” I growl. “I'm just trying to have a drink and clear my head. I didn't ask you to come over here and start bothering me.”
Her eyes grow wide, her cheeks flush with color, and she looks absolutely indignant. She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off before she can get started.
“Seriously, I'm not interested,” I say. “It’s time for you to move along now.”
She seems flustered, as if she can’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. Like I’m suddenly speaking in Mandarin.
“Fuck you,” she snaps.
“Clever,” I say. “Bye now.”
She purses her lips and snatches her bag off the bar before sliding off the stool and leaving in a huff.
At least she finally took the hint.
Left alone with my drink and my thoughts once more, I turn back to the mirror and stare into my face again. I can still see the edges of bitterness there, and it bothers me. I shouldn't feel this way. I know that I’m the only person to blame for the end of my career. It's taken some time to accept that fact, but it's true. The consequences of my crazy, indulgent lifestyle changed my life forever.
It was only when I knew I'd never play again that I realized how much the game meant to me. Realizing what my lifestyle had cost me left me feeling completely empty – a hollow shell of a person.
For a while, I was pissed
. I blamed everyone around me. I alienated friends, family – pushed away the people closest to me because I couldn't deal with my own shit. Some have come back into my life since then, but many haven't. And that's okay. A lot of the “friends” who haven’t come back enabled me to live that kind of lifestyle. Some even encouraged me to keep going and never let the party end.
The party did end though. It always does.
I knew that when the game was taken from me, I had to find another outlet to focus on. I needed a new challenge. Something to pour all my energy into. I knew if I didn't, it would be all too easy to become one of those cautionary tales people tell about athletes who go off the rails. The last thing I ever wanted was to be featured on some ESPN 30 for 30 special about a budding NFL star’s fall from grace.
So, I got clean. I got sober. I was hellbent on proving every doubter and hater wrong. To show them I could pull myself up from rock bottom and thrive again. So, I went back to school and finished out my degree in Sports Management. After that, I launched my agency – Cutting Edge Management. It took some time, but I slowly built it up from nothing. We forged a reputation that is absolutely sterling. One of the best.
Now, we represent some of the biggest names in major sports. We've even launched a branch of CEM that handles representation for some of Hollywood's biggest stars.
I drain the remainder of my drink and look at myself in the mirror one last time. All things considered, my life is pretty good. A little lonely, sure, but good overall.
I really shouldn't look this bitter.
* * *
“We weren't expecting to fly until tomorrow,” Roger explains.
“Yeah, I decided to go back early,” I reply.
“Not a problem, sir,” he says. “I filed the new flight plan when I got your call. A few finals checks, and we’ll be good to go.”
“Thank you, Roger.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
I climb the steps into the cabin of my private jet. Dropping down into my usual seat, I stretch out and lean back. Roger has been my pilot for years. He's solid. Reliable. Good at his job. He piloted an insane number of combat missions while in the military. Now that he’s retired from that life, he shuttles rich people around for a living.
It’s probably more boring than what he used to do, but at least he’s not dodging missiles in combat zones anymore.
Buckling my seat belt, I lean back into the plush executive seat and look out the window. The moon is high and powerfully bright over the Arizona landscape. The whole world outside is bathed in a soft, silvery monochromatic light. The landscape may seem cold and almost alien, but it’s actually quite beautiful.
Roger passes me with a nod as he steps into the cockpit, closing the door behind him. The plane rumbles around me as the engines warm up and the rest of the pre-flight checks are completed. The skycaps load my bags and wait for clearance from the tower to taxi to the runway and take off.
A few moments later, we're airborne and heading back to LA.
Heading home.
As I stare down at the dwindling lights of the city below, I let my mind wander through the years. Through all the struggles and problems I've endured. Through all my fuck ups – and the good times too.
I have a lot to be thankful for. I sometimes let myself become caught up in the shit I've been through. That's something I need to work on. For all the shit I've been through – and put myself through – I'm still standing. And I'm doing well. I've put in a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get myself to where I am today.
I need to remember that. Need to remind myself of how fortunate I am.
Maybe, if I do that more often, it will help wipe the bitter, angry look off my face.
Chapter Two
Emma
“Emma! Emma, get up.”
A harsh, shrill voice pulls me out of sleep. Shit. Sleep. I look up into the face of Helen Arnott, Editor-in-Chief of the Long Beach Times Daily – the newspaper where I work. Helen's eyes are narrowed, and her face is pinched with anger. A wave of confusion washes over me as I look around and try to figure out what's going on.
Oh god. I'm still slumped over the table in the mailroom where I laid my head down during my lunch break. I snatch my phone off the table and realize that was over an hour and a half ago. I slept through my alarm. Again.
Crap.
“My office,” Helen says, her voice flat and cold. “Now.”
“Helen, I can –”
She turns and leaves the mailroom before I can even finish my answer. This is the third time this month she's found me asleep in the mailroom after oversleeping. She warned me last time that I'd be in big trouble if it happened again – and here we are.
Shit.
I grab my things and stand up, slowly walking out of the mailroom, my heart sinking lower with every step. If she’d listen to me, I’d tell her there's a perfectly good reason I can't stay awake here. As an intern, I don't make crap for salary and keep a second job to afford my bills. That second job is working overnight and late into the morning at a bar downtown.
Which makes being awake and functional during normal business hours slightly harder, to say the least.
As I walk through the small newsroom, the silence is deafening, and tension permeates the air. I notice that everyone is trying their best to avoid looking at Helen and me. Suddenly, their computers or something as trivial as the box of paperclips on their desk, have become endlessly fascinating and all-consuming.
Which tells me I'm in deep shit. All I need is to hear somebody calling out, “dead woman walking,” to complete this professional walk of shame.
I step inside the doorway of Helen's office, my body stiff, my heart thundering erratically in my breast. Helen looks up at me as the frown on her face deepens.
“Come in and shut the door, Emma,” she says. “Have a seat.”
I don't want to. I really don't want to, since I have a pretty good idea what's coming next. Actually, I would rather just turn around and run back to my cubicle and pretend like none of this ever happened. That's really what I'd rather be doing.
Slowly and reluctantly, I shut the door behind me and slink over to the chairs in front of her desk. Trying to maintain some sense of dignity and decorum, I take a seat, keeping my back straight and my face neutral – which is no small feat, since I feel like I’m on the verge of simultaneously vomiting and crying.
“I'm not going to sugarcoat this, Emma,” Helen says. “You've been warned about sleeping through your lunch hour now, twice. And –”
“Helen, please,” I beg, my voice cracking. “I have to work a second job at night to keep up with my bills, and I –”
She sighs and folds her hands together, the look in her eyes softening – slightly. “You're enormously talented, Emma,” she says. “But, I'm not going to lie. I'm really disappointed with your dedication to your craft. Or rather, your lack of dedication to it. You miss deadlines –”
“I missed one deadline, Helen,” I say. “One. And that was over six months ago.”
“And this whole sleeping on the job thing –”
“Like I’ve explained before, as an intern here with intern pay, I have to hold a second job,” I argue. “I have to pay my bills somehow.”
“I understand that,” she says. “But, at the same time, it's your job to impress me. To make me take notice of you. And you've done that. Just – not necessarily for the right reasons, I'm afraid.”
“Helen, please,” I say. “I can't afford to lose this job. Just in terms of experience alone –”
“Like I said, I think you're enormously talented, Emma,” she cuts me off. “I know you're going to land on your feet. Unfortunately, I can't overlook things this time. I'm going to have to let you go.”
“Helen, please,” I plead. “Please, give me one more chance. It won't happen again. I swear.”
“I'm sorry, Emma,” she says coolly, “but, that's exactly what you said last time. I can't take you at your word a
nymore. And I really can't have you sleeping on the clock.”
“Helen, please.”
“Emma, please don’t force me into a position where I have to ask security to escort you off the premises,” she snaps. “Please clean out your cubicle and leave the building. Now. I won’t ask again.”
The thought of having security escort me out – and I know Helen would – is even more appalling than being fired. It would add a substantial layer of insult to injury. Without another word, I slowly stand up and walk to her door, taking my time in hopes that she'll change her mind.
She doesn't.
Like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, I slink out of her office and head to my cubicle – only to find a couple of empty cardboard boxes already waiting for me. An unnatural hush has fallen over the newsroom, and I can feel everyone looking at me. The weight of their gazes – from people I've considered my friends – is oppressive and stifling.
As I begin packing up the boxes, I can't stop a few tears from rolling down my face. I wipe them away, angry with myself for screwing up this badly. Not only am I going to miss out on the experience of working in a newsroom, but I'm also losing the paycheck that comes with it. As meager as it is, it helps to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.
And now I've gone and screwed it all up.
“Hey, you okay?”
I look up to see an older man named Tom standing in my cubicle doorway. Concern is etched into his face, and his blue eyes are filled with sadness.