by Tara Wyatt
WILD CARD
© 2020 by Tara Wyatt
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN 978-0-9950381-2-7
Contents
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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
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Caught Looking
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About the Author
One
Hunter Blake was no stranger to being in deep shit. He’d need all his fingers and some of his toes to count the number of times he’d been in it, and that was only off the top of his head. Like the time he went joyriding in his dad’s fully restored 1983 Firebird and scratched the hell out of it when he’d tried to sneak it back into the garage. Or the time he’d lost his rent money—back in the days of farm team ball—betting on horses. Or the time he’d participated in a bench clearing brawl, earning himself a nice suspension. Or the time just a few months ago that he’d taken the blame for a baggie of weed that hadn’t belonged to him.
Okay, fine. So impulse control wasn’t his strong suit, although the pot was a different story. Kind of.
But all that deep shittery had come in handy, because now Hunter had a radar for it. And here, in this conference room, it was going off, loud and clear.
His agent, Aerin, shot him a tight-lipped smile from across the table, an untouched bottle of water in front of her. She was the only one in the room even coming close to smiling. In his role as a center fielder and star slugger for the Dallas Longhorns, Hunter was used to scrutiny and pressure, but this was another level. He felt like he was a specimen on a microscope slide with a half-dozen sets of eyeballs trained on him.
Outside, rain drummed heavily against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room. Lightning sliced across the afternoon sky, lighting up the Dallas skyline. Evolve, the multi-million-dollar athletic gear company, had their offices on the fifty-second floor of one of Dallas’s most well-known skyscrapers, giving them a plum view of the downtown core and everything around it. It would’ve been a nice spot to watch the thunderstorm if it weren’t for the circumstances.
Several executives from the company sat around the table, all dressed in anything but suits. High-end leisure wear, mostly. These were the kind of guys who dropped five hundred bucks on a pair of cashmere sweatpants and thought nothing of it.
And they all looked pissed. Really pissed.
“Hunter, have a seat,” said Cypress, the company’s director of brand integrity. Hunter glanced around the room, a creeping sense of dread settling right in the pit of his stomach, and he pulled out one of the pristine white leather chairs. All he knew was that he’d been summoned to Evolve’s offices. He’d assumed they’d be discussing the final details on their impending endorsement deal, but now he wasn’t so sure. Cypress tented his fingers and leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “I’m afraid we might have a problem.”
Hunter ran a hand through his hair and hoisted a grin onto his face. “Oh, yeah? What kind of problem?”
“Well…quite frankly, you.”
Hunter looked at Aerin, who took that as her cue to leap in, cutting through the tension hovering in the room like smoke.
“The team here at Evolve is concerned about recent events and how they might reflect on their brand if they move forward with the endorsement deal. Which is an understandable, if not misplaced, concern,” she said, sending Cypress a placating smile. Hunter said nothing. He couldn’t deny that recent events didn’t depict him the best light.
“Hunter, my man, listen,” said Ira, the company’s marketing director, adjusting his glasses. “We love you. We love the Longhorns. We love what you represent to baseball fans, to sports fans, to aspiring athletes, to Dallas. But we’re worried about what’s been going on with you this season. The arrest, the fight, the two suspensions. Evolve’s brand messaging is about evolving into your best self, your higher self, through sport. And right now there seems to be some discord between who we are, and you.”
Before Hunter could say anything, Aerin jumped back in, cool and sharp as always. “I think you’re looking at this from the wrong angle. Think of it this way. Yes, Hunter’s had a rough year, but what better person to showcase the message of your brand than someone who’s actually evolving and becoming better?”
This earned a series of thoughtful nods and murmurs from around the table and Hunter shot her a wink. Thank fucking God for Aerin.
“A valid point,” conceded Cypress with a nod, “but I’m not sure that’ll placate our investors. They think Hunter’s a risky prospect. And frankly, I agree.” He didn’t meet Hunter’s eyes as he spoke, so Hunter leaned forward, deliberately taking up more space in his field of vision. “Our mission here is to lead by example, to be the change we want to see, to embody the success we sell to our customers. We’re eco-friendly, high end, yet attainable, and we appeal to a certain kind of clientele. I’m just not sure Hunter can fill the role we’re looking for in a brand ambassador.”
Hunter fiddled with the water bottle in front of him. “These aren’t very eco-friendly. Just saying.” Aerin somehow managed to both smile and shoot poisonous snakes at him with her eyes. Right. That whole impulse control thing.
He clenched his jaw, tension radiating down his neck. He wanted this endorsement deal. Needed it. Not because of the money, although he wasn’t about to turn down an extra four million dollars a season. Like, who’d say no to that kind of money? Pretty much no one. But the main reason he wanted it was because they’d chosen him. Because he’d earned it. With his record on the field, with his athleticism, with his drive.
See, the thing was, he knew he was a talented athlete, but he’d always wondered if he’d gotten to where he was in his career because of his Hall of Famer dad. He knew he’d had doors open to him that might’ve been locked shut if not for his last name and his father’s connections. So he was hungry for anything he’d earned himself. Desperate, almost. But he wasn’t about to let Evolve think that. Begging wasn’t his style.
He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “I mean, if that’s the way you feel. I’ve made some mistakes, sure, but who hasn’t? I’ve owned up to every single fuck-up and I still bust my ass on the field every night. But if you think you can find someone better, have at it.”
“No, my man, that’s not what we’re saying,” said Ira, shooting Cypress a panicked look. “We just wanted to bring the concerns of our investors to the table to give you a chance to refute them.”
Hunter shrugged. “Consider them refuted.” If they wanted him to beg or grovel or anything like that, Cypress was right; they had the wrong guy.
Aerin cleared her throat and tucked a sleek strand of her white-blond hair behind her ear. “I think we’re all saying the same thing here, but in different ways. You want reassurance that Hunter’s on the straight and narrow and looking to get his shit together. I prom
ise you, he is,” she said, sending him a look that said she’d skin him alive if he turned her into a liar. “And Hunter is working hard to elevate his image, both on and off the field. I understand your concerns, but I don’t see why we can’t move forward.”
“We need to see Hunter making a concerted effort before we’ll be comfortable signing him on officially,” said Cypress. “That’s the bottom line here.”
“And you will.” Aerin nodded confidently. “I promise you.”
Ira and Cypress exchanged a look and then nodded. “Okay. We’ll start drawing up the paperwork, which will take our legal team some time. In the next few weeks, we want to see Hunter putting his best foot forward. Deal?”
“Deal.” Aerin answered without even looking at him. Hell, they were talking about him like he wasn’t even in the room. He pushed up out of his chair and headed for the door, since they apparently didn’t even need him here.
Aerin caught up with him in the hall, her stiletto heels clicking on the tiled floor. “I’m doing my best for you, but you gotta shape up. Get it together, do something to improve your image. Charity work, or I dunno. Get a kitten or something.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “A kitten?” About a dozen pussy-themed jokes flitted through his mind, but he managed to behave and not blurt any of them out.
“Something that will make people think you’re more than just a spoiled bad boy. Something that comes with responsibility and makes you look more…well, more grown up. No more frat boy antics.” She leveled a finger at him and then clicked away down the hall, her long legs moving her rapidly toward the ladies’ room. With a sigh, Hunter sauntered over to the elevators and jabbed the call button, wanting to get the hell out of there.
He strode quickly to his black Mercedes S-Class in the parking garage below the building, feeling like he’d just been scolded in the principal’s office. Shame warred with his ego in an exhausting tug of war. Who were they to tell him he wasn’t good enough for their company? He’d be doing them a favor by signing on. They needed him. He wanted them, but he didn’t need them.
Yep, you just keep telling yourself that having Evolve bail would be totally cool.
He slipped into his car, silence enveloping him along with the scent of new leather. With a sigh, he started the ignition, not even sure where to go or what to do with himself. He was currently serving out his suspension for his role in the brawl, and on top of that, the All-Star break was starting tomorrow. Fuck, the All-Star break. He’d been supposed to go this year, but that had gotten fucked up too. And as much as he wanted to blame his manager, Javi, for benching him, deep down, he knew he deserved it. The shame bubbling up inside him felt like it was about to swallow him up, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling restless with it. Feeling an almost relentless need to do something, anything to shut his brain off. Distantly, he knew that this pattern was exactly how he’d gotten himself here in the first place, but habits were hard to break. Especially given that he’d chosen this path.
His phone buzzed from his pocket, and before he pulled out of the parking space, he fished it out. It was a text, from Marlowe of all people. Despite knowing better, despite his vow that he’d find a way to get over her, Hunter’s entire body responded to seeing her name on his screen. His heart knocked into his ribs, his stomach started eating itself, his lungs couldn’t get enough air. Knowing better and not being able to stop himself, he swiped his thumb across the screen.
Marlowe: Vegas???
Her message was followed by several emojis, including a starry-eyed smile, the money-mouth face, kissy lips, and a slot machine.
Hunter: When?
Marlowe: I’m here now.
Don’t. Don’t do it, man.
Hunter: On my way.
Whatever. He’d work on his impulse control when he got back.
Nothing around Marlowe matched her mood. Not the bright Vegas sunshine, or the serene outline of the mountains in the distance. Not the view of the Strip or the merrily bubbling fountain visible from her spot curled up in the soft sheets of the king-sized bed. Not the posh, luxuriously appointed suite she’d hidden herself away in. Her terrace suite in the Cosmopolitan was done in shades of white and gray with subtle pops of blue and green throughout. Everything was sleek and modern with lots of glass and metal. Totally glam. Soothing and comfortable. Expensive and beautiful, and normally expensive, beautiful things cheered her up, but she felt numb to it today. She’d burrowed into the bed looking for comfort but had yet to find any.
Goosebumps trailed up her arms. The air conditioning was on just a little too high, but she couldn’t be bothered to adjust the thermostat because that would involve unwrapping herself from the duvet and getting out of bed, which wasn’t going to happen. She was fine where she was.
Just fine.
Absolutely peachy freaking keen.
The silence in the room felt heavy, so she untangled herself enough to fumble for the TV remote on the slick black-lacquered night stand. With a tiny, staticky vibration, it came on, tuned to the hotel’s information channel. She started flipping channels, not sure what she was looking for, just wanting something—anything—to break up the silence. She clicked rhythmically past an infomercial for a blender, some old action movie, news, a cooking show, a Law & Order rerun, Live with Ryan and Kelly, Curious George, something in Japanese, Hollywood Now…
She didn’t mean to stop, but it was hard not to when she saw her own face filling the screen as the Hollywood Now hosts droned on. She sat up, pulling the duvet around herself like a kind of fluffy armor.
“But the twenty-eight year old pop-country singer’s latest album, her sixth, entitled Someone’s Princess, isn’t climbing the charts like her previous albums did. The album has sold about 100,000 units during its first few weeks, which sounds impressive, but when you factor in that her previous album, Flower Symphony, sold three million units during its first two weeks, those numbers spell trouble for Marlowe Story.”
She changed the channel, landing on something in Spanish, and even though she didn’t speak Spanish, she dropped the remote onto the bed. She just wanted the noise so she didn’t feel so alone. In the past week, she hadn’t heard from her manager, from anyone from her label, not even from most of her industry friends. She felt like a sinking ship that everyone had abandoned, leaving her to drown. She shook her head, trying to pull herself out of her self-pitying spiral and grabbed her laptop from where she’d tossed it on the bed. Communication was a two-way street, after all.
Opening her laptop, she pulled up her personal gmail account. She had a handful of unread messages, so she started from the bottom and worked her way up. One from her agent:
Chin up, girlie. This is just a blip. Once the tour starts in a couple of months, you’ll be golden. Sometimes things are just slow, you know? In the meantime, let’s brainstorm some ways to connect with fans. Maybe a fan getaway or cruise? Something to get your name in the news for something other than album sales? I’ll brainstorm and you let me know if you think of anything.
From a PR person at her label:
Hi Marlowe! I hope this email finds you well. I’m afraid I’m writing with some bad news—the exclusive live concert with the streaming service we’d discussed isn’t going to work out. They’ve decided to go with someone else. Have you thought about what more you could do re: fan engagement/media interest? Please let me know.
Marlowe hit reply, typed out “isn’t figuring that out your job?” then promptly deleted it. She’d let her silence be her response. Finally, one from her mother.
Hi sweetie,
How are you? I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I just wanted to check in to make sure you’re okay. I hope you’re taking care of yourself. Love, Mom
Her fingers felt heavy on the keyboard; she didn’t have the energy to reply to any of the messages right now. It was easy enough for her agent to offer words of encouragement, but what if this was it? What if everything she’d worked for
was slipping through her fingers and she was powerless to stop it?
She was proud of the album she’d put out—it was just as good as any of her others, even if the lead off single, “You and I” was admittedly maybe not her best work. She was finding it harder and harder to write the emotionally driven love songs she was known for. Maybe because it was a well she’d been tapping for ten years now and it was just about dry. And it wasn’t like she did anything to replenish it. That would involve dating and commitment and trust and vulnerability—all things she didn’t do. She’d learned from a young age that men didn’t stay and true love was nothing but a fairytale. She’d seen the havoc chasing something that didn’t exist had wrought on her mom. Marlowe would have to be crazy to sign up for that. So, she kept her heart to herself and explored that unattainable fairytale through music.
She sighed and started to close her laptop, but then opened it up again. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she typed her name into the search bar and started scrolling. Every once in a while, she popped onto some of the bigger fan blogs and liked posts and comments, or even wrote a little reply. Normally, her fans were such a supportive tribe. But something had happened, a disconnect of some kind, and Marlowe wanted to know what it was. After a few minutes, she found a comment that hit home and cut deep at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Marlowe and her music. But it’s all just starting to feel kind of…stunted? If that makes sense? She’s been writing the same kind of songs for ten years now, and while that was great in her early twenties, I want something more mature from her. I’ve grown up with her, but I’m finding it harder to identify with her music now that I’m happily married and have a baby on the way and she’s still singing about breakups and boyfriends. This album feels stale. I’m sorry, but it does.