Falling for Dante (A Clean Slate Novel Book 2)

by DJ Hunnam

  "A fucking pound of cocaine and two underage Russian prostitutes."

  "Jesus."

  "His last drug related offense was minor league compared to this." While Allie sounded gleeful, I felt sick to my stomach.

  "Give me an hour, and I'll be in."

  "Good," she said, her voice dropping to a reverent hush. "And Dante, I wanted to be the first to congratulate you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Haven't you checked your emails this weekend?"

  "I've been a bit tied up."

  "Please, don't elaborate. You've been nominated by the Seattle Journalists' Association as one of the Sports Writers of the Year."

  I was stunned. "Really?"

  "Yes." Her voice was pregnant with emotion, which was very atypical of my tough-as-nails boss. "You deserve it. Your exposé on that coach in Bremerton who was allowing players on the field with concussions was phenomenal. The awards ceremony is in January. That should give you enough time to find a suitable date."

  "Can't you be my date?" I asked.

  "Very funny. I'm serious. Find a respectable girl to bring, not one of your fuck buddies."

  "Who says my fuck buddies aren't respectable?"

  "Please, I've seen the women you take home."

  "See you in an hour, boss," I said with a chuckle.

  After a quick shower, I powered up my laptop and went straight to Facebook. I skimmed the photos Erica had posted over the weekend. Except for her fake smile, which seemed to be the norm as of late, she looked spectacular.

  God, I missed her real smile. The over-eager one she would try to hide when I came home with her brother during school breaks. Walking into a room and inspiring that sort of reaction, had always been more satisfying than scoring a touchdown.

  But more than anything, I missed talking to her. About books. About life. About our dreams. With Erica, I hadn't been Number Eleven or the Demon. She hadn't cared about the number of touchdowns or receiving yards I'd had in my last game. I'd just been Dante.

  And then I had screwed it all up. Sooner or later she was going to have to forgive me.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I scrolled to the last image. Erica had attended the posh event alone, or at least that was the story the pictures told. Even though I shouldn't care, I hated every man lucky enough to grace her presence.

  I wanted to be the man to take her to fancy events and help her out of limousines. More than that, I wanted to be the man that went home with her afterward. Maybe it was time to give relationships another shot.

  I hadn't entertained the idea since my senior year of college. Not since Keandra. After Erica had stormed out of that frat house bathroom, Keandra had latched onto me like a Hoover vacuum. And it hadn't helped that she gave head like one, either. I had allowed my dick to make decisions only my brain should have been authorized to make.

  Over the next year, Keandra had somehow wheedled her way into my mom's good graces. Probably because they were both kindred spirits and wanted the same thing from me. A big, fat paycheck.

  Within the first week of spring rookie camp, Keandra had set her sights on one of my teammates with an even bigger paycheck. I'd caught the two fucking in my apartment. The cheating had been a blip on my radar.

  The real betrayal occurred a year later when she came skulking back with a beautiful baby girl she claimed was mine. After dragging me through a paternity battle that hadn't ended in her favor, she'd begged me to take her back. I'd considered it, not because of any lingering affection for Keandra, but because I felt sorry for that baby.

  Then I watched Damian go through all that heinous shit with his wife, Amelia, which had confirmed my feelings about relationships. They were for fools.

  That was what I had been telling myself for the last five years. But the endless stream of women who wanted nothing more than a ride on my pogo stick or a run at my bank account was getting old. There were days I felt lonelier when someone was warming my bed than when I was actually alone.

  When my phone started buzzing again, I almost ignored it, until I saw that it was Damian.

  "Hey man, how are you?" I asked as I dragged on a pair of sweatpants.

  "Good. How did you and that hot bartender make out Saturday night?" Damian asked.

  "We made out just fine." I'd met Sydney at a new club in downtown Seattle. The second she'd walked up to me from behind the bar, I'd known I was going to fuck her. Lucky for me she'd had an insatiable sexual appetite that rivaled my own.

  "I don't even know why I asked," Damian said with a dry tone. "Hey, I have a favor to ask. I need you to come to my parents' wedding anniversary in Maui."

  The over-the-top, gold-embossed invitation with the Wood family crest still sat unanswered on my desk.

  "Will Erica be there?"

  "Of course."

  "Then you got it," I replied.

  I would have gone regardless, because I always had my friend's back. Erica's presence just sweetened the deal. I hadn't seen Erica since her grandfather's funeral. I'd cornered her and tried to talk to her about what had happened in that frat house bathroom. She had shut me down with a few choice four-letter words, like every other time I'd tried to talk to her in the last five years.

  "I hope I don't have to remind you that my little sister is still off limits," Damian growled.

  "You have nothing to worry about," I lied.

  "Erica, what the hell are you doing? The party started hours ago and we still have to do your hair."

  I slammed my laptop shut just as Jake, my stylist and best friend, marched into my bedroom with a spiral brush in one hand. He arched one brow and dragged a hand through his styled, blonde hair. "What were you looking at?"

  "Nothing."

  "You are a horrible liar, honey. Like, the worst I've ever known."

  "You make it sound like it's a character flaw," I said, cheeks burning as I set the laptop on my nightstand.

  "It is. You're a grown-ass woman. If you're going to stalk people, you better learn how to lie about it."

  "I'm not stalking him. I just like to read his articles." I played with the hem of my black cocktail dress. Jake settled next to me on my twin bed and shook his head.

  "Don't wrap your bullshit up in a pretty package and try to give it to me for my birthday. You've been stalking that boy since the day I met you."

  I flopped back onto my satin coverlet and stared at the exposed ductwork of my tiny New York City apartment. Jake was right. After nearly ten years, I still had an unhealthy obsession with my brother's best friend.

  The day I met Dante Williams, my life had exploded beyond the immaculate grounds of my parents' mansion. Beyond the stuffy and oppressive walls of my all-girls' high school. Beyond the constraints of my imagination. Up until that point, no boy or man had been able to capture my attention the way the world of books had.

  I had ruined it all in one night of teenage angst. My heart had never fully recovered. Dante's rejection had been the catalyst for my move to New York City. However, if everything had worked out the way that I had imagined, I would have been studying for finals instead of prepping for a launch party.

  "I'm pathetic," I said, laying one arm over my eyes.

  "I'm sure you're not the only person who watches his old games and masturbates to his touchdowns."

  My jaw dropped open, and I started to argue because that was so not true. I didn't masturbate to Dante's touchdowns. I only touched myself while reliving memories of Dante between my legs in that bathroom.

  "And I'm sure there are other crazies out there, who print every article he writes and pastes them into a journal with little hearts on the front."

  I sat up and punched Jake in the shoulder. "What the hell? You've been snooping through my stuff?"

  "Oh honey, you're about as subtle as a four-year-old sneaking candy." He crawled behind me and started brushing my hair, ignoring my glare. "Don't be embarrassed. So, you have a little crush on your brother's best friend. Who hasn't had a
crush on their brother's best friend?"

  "You haven't."

  "Well, that's because my brother's best friend is a homophobic redneck with a receding hairline. Dante, on the other hand, is like a big bowl of decadent silk mousse. I would devour that boy in one sitting."

  Bursting into laughter, I settled back against Jake's chest, which vibrated with his own.

  "It doesn't matter. Dante will never see me as anything more than a stupid kid."

  "A man does not do what he did to you if he only sees you as a stupid kid."

  I pushed off the bed and headed to the utilitarian bathroom off my bedroom because I didn't need thoughts of Dante banging around in my head.

  By most New Yorkers' standards, the five-hundred-square-foot apartment on Seventy-First and Second Avenue was frugality at its finest. And it still cost over three grand a month. As one of Hot Shot Cosmetics' top models, I could have afforded more, but I squirreled away every penny I made.

  When I came to New York to attend Columbia, I naively thought that my father would eventually accept my desire to pursue a degree in the humanities. Once he'd figured out that I had no intention of going to law school, he'd yanked the monetary rug right out from under me.

  The fifty-five-thousand per year price tag was not something I could afford on my part-time coffee-shop wage. I dropped out and went to work. Modeling was supposed to have been a temporary gig, but somehow after three years I still found myself trapped by the lure of good money.

  Damian had offered his financial support, but I had insisted on standing on my own two feet. Except I was doing a pretty shitty job of standing. Most days I felt like I was drowning.

  I turned from side to side and admired my hair, which fell in a glossy stream down my back, forcing aside all of the what-if's swimming in my head. Courtesy of Jake's cosmetology skills, my blue eyes popped. Although my dress fell a touch too high, it showcased my long legs.

  I ran my hands over my hips. I had put on a few pounds. Not a lot, but enough that my agent had mentioned the possibility of hiring a private trainer at our last meeting. It had to be all the stress. I had been a meticulous calorie counter since I was a teenager. Good thing my dress size was about to become a non-issue.

  "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Jake asked from the doorway, interrupting my musings. "I can run interference for you. Keep Brent away."

  That man's name sent shivers cascading down my spine. Brent was an award-winning photographer and someone I had once considered a friend. Jake must have noticed my shudder, because he wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me a wan smile.

  "You don't have to go," he said.

  "I'll be fine." We both fell silent, and I looked out the small, octagonal window above the toilet. Snow drifted down peacefully, blanketing the busy streets and scurrying crowds.

  "What are they going to do if you don't show up? Fire you?"

  "I have to do this. And I know how much you hate the Hot Shot crowd, so I'm not going to drag you along," I said, trying my best to smile even though I wanted to cry.

  "I'm glad this is your last campaign, honey."

  "Me too."

  ***

  By the time I showed up at Brent's Upper East Side apartment, the party was in full swing. Hordes of beautiful people mingled with cocktails, while a DJ spun loud music in the far corner. Suspended over a makeshift dance floor swung a glittering disco ball.

  Bile rose up my throat as I stepped past the entryway. After handing my coat to an overenthusiastic girl by the door, I grabbed a glass of champagne, sipping it while I scoped out the crowd.

  "Erica. I'm so glad you're here." A young blonde ran toward me and threw her arms around my waist, knocking me back a step.

  "Hi, Lila," I said with a giggle.

  Lila was the newest model ensnared by Hot Shot Cosmetics. She was girl-next-door beautiful with hazel eyes, blonde hair, and a sweet innocence the camera loved and that was impossible to fake. Barely out of high school, Lila reminded me of the naive girl I had been five years ago when I'd arrived in New York City. I had taken her under my wing, hoping that if I mentored her, she might avoid some of the many pitfalls of the modeling industry.

  She brushed her blonde hair out of her face and glanced around, eyes shining with excitement. "Isn't this amazing?"

  "Yeah, sure," I muttered as I sipped my champagne. A burst of laughter from across the room drew our gazes. Several girls were dancing in front of a Hot Shot executive who lounged on a leather couch. He had his hand lodged up one of their skirts.

  "Holy crap," Lila mumbled. "Is he... right there in public?"

  "Looks like. Always be polite, but steer clear of Dan."

  She nodded her head with wide eyes. A few people were doing lines of cocaine off the glass coffee table and Lila started in that direction when I snagged her by the elbow. "Not tonight."

  "Why not? Don't act all high and mighty, Erica."

  "Listen, these parties tend to get out of hand. You have to be careful," I said with a sigh.

  "Can I at least have a drink, Mom?"

  With a strained laugh, I nodded and we sauntered over to the bar. Several large photographs hung on the wall. I recognized one from a shoot I had done in Belize. I was kneeling in the surf with my wet hair running down my back, glancing over my shoulder with a shy smile, even though I was completely nude. The shot was tasteful, since sand strategically covered everything important. I had been dressed in a bikini when the shoot started, but then Brent had somehow convinced me to take it off.

  "That shot is amazing," Lila murmured.

  "Thanks."

  "Brent told me I have potential. He offered to do a private shoot, to help me with my book."

  My stomach sank. I pulled Lila away from the bar and the rest of the crowd, forcing her into a small alcove off the kitchen. "Promise me you'll never be alone with Brent."

  "Why? He seems nice. And he's really good-looking."

  Good-looking was an understatement. For a guy in his early forties, he was gorgeous. He had thick brown hair, green eyes with long lashes and a better body than most guys my age. And he had been using his looks and charm to get what he wanted as long as I'd known him.

  "Just promise me."

  "Did he do something to you?"

  I sensed his presence, even before I heard his deep voice. "Hello, ladies, are you enjoying the party?"

  When I spun around in my five-inch heels, Brent's eyes caressed my entire body, lingering on my chest. It took all of my self-control not to run.

  Dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a blue button-down that spanned the breadth of his chest, Brent looked good. At over six feet, he was tall. Courtesy of the boxing gym he frequented, he was also muscular and strong. Something I knew all too well.

  "Yes, it's great," I said between clenched teeth.

  "You're looking lovely as always." He leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on my cheek that made my skin crawl. I backed up a step, but he pretended not to notice.

  "And Lila, you look ravishing, darling." Brent grabbed her hand and spun her around in a circle.

  "Thanks," she said breathlessly.

  "When are we going to schedule that private shoot, Lila?" Brent asked. The bastard had the gall to wink at me.

  "Um, I don't know. I'll have to get back with you," Lila stammered. "Oh, hey, Francis just came in, I'm going to go say hi."

  Lila threw me an apologetic glance over her shoulder before scurrying off.

  "She is something else, isn't she?" Brent said, sidling up so close that his shirt brushed my shoulder. He grasped his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head. "Reminds me of you. So fresh and virginal... Ready for the taking."

  "You're a sick fuck, Brent," I hissed under my breath. I clenched and unclenched my fists, resisting the urge to try out my recently acquired self-defense skills.

  He laughed. "Why? Because I like beautiful women?"

  "Drop the act."

  "You know what your probl
em is, Erica? You're ungrateful. I brought you into the fold and you tried to shit on me."

  "Leave. Lila. Alone," I gritted. Several people cast curious glances our direction, and I forced my lips up into a fake smile.

  "Or what? Are you going to run to Dan and tattle on me? That worked so well the last time, didn't it?" Brent's soft laughter grated like fingernails on a chalkboard, but he was right. The CEO of Hot Shot Cosmetics had not taken me seriously. In fact, he had somehow convinced me it was my fault by the end of the meeting. "Don't do anything stupid. I wouldn't want the photos from your private shoot to end up on the Internet."

  Before I could respond, he strolled off, giving me one last wink over his shoulder.

  Asshole.

  I rushed to the bathroom and pulled my cell phone out of my clutch. After sending a quick text to my brother, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. I didn't recognize the scared woman staring back.

  It was time for a change.

  After giving myself a silent pep talk, I walked out of the bathroom. I glanced down the hallway towards the party. No one was heading my direction, so I took off my heels and tiptoed the opposite direction until I came to the closed door of Brent's study.

  I slipped through the solid, mahogany door and locked it behind me. The stench of Brent's cologne filled the room, and I resisted the urge to gag. After several deep breaths, I rushed to his desk.

  Scattered across the top were proofs from his latest shoot and a neat pile of trade magazines was stacked next to his keyboard. There was no way I could guess the password to his laptop, so I yanked open the top left drawer and rifled through the contents. Paper clips and pens mocked me from the interior. The next drawer down was full of old files, and I leafed through them as quickly as I could.

  The top drawer on the right was a dead end, too. I was starting to grow frustrated when I noticed the unassuming cigar box perched on the edge of Brent's desk, next to a photograph of him surfing. In all the years I'd known him, I had never seen Brent smoke. He hated when the models chain-smoked during shoots. With shaking hands, I opened the lid, half expecting alarms to sound.

  Wrapped Cuban cigars lay in a neat row on the velvet gold interior.