Ain't Happenin' (The Ballsy Boy Series Book 2)

by Shandi Boyes

  Nothing against janitors—just having a job is a step up from my last boyfriend—but this proves without a doubt why the stranger’s panty-wetting face will never have me overlooking his height—or should I say, lack of height?

  I’m a clean freak. Keeping things neat and well-organized is all I know. Not even rooming with Picky McFlicky the past two weeks doused my desire to have things sparkling. I just had to add a paint scraper to my arsenal. I thought my booger-scraping days were behind me when I left for college. Alas, Michelle has yet to get the message that picking your nose and flicking its horrid treasures across the room is something only children do.

  Thank God I patched things up with Willow this afternoon as I was one nose-bug away from murdering Michelle.

  You’re probably wondering what anal cleanliness has to do with the stranger and me becoming friendly. Well, for one, tell me one mechanic you know who drives a mechanically-fit vehicle. Or a gardener who has a weed-free front lawn. Housekeepers, mechanics, and gardens are the equivalent of a football coach. They’re worth their weight in gold at their place of employment, but the instant you bring them home, anticipate disappointment—touchdowns included.

  I still when a ruckus of excitement bombards the lower half of my body. Shortie J is touching me. Not in a creepy you-better-call-the-police way, but in a way that sets off a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach.

  The hammering of my heart is heard in my voice when I ask, “Do you often touch before asking?”

  My sass takes a backseat when my question awards me the dedication of his eyes. They’re all types of brain-numbing.

  A janitor is still a title, right? It’s not as prestigious as MD, Ph.D., or Hall of Famer, but it’s still a title, nonetheless.

  I’m snapped from my dream-snatching thoughts when he replies, “In my hometown, we’re encouraged to show our love of beauty. If we see it, we must cherish it.” His dark and mysterious eyes bounce between mine as he brushes his index finger down my cheek and across my lips like they’re not painted in my favorite team’s colors. “You are Bellissima, a true symbol of beauty and motherhood.”

  His last word has my eyes popping out of my head a mere second before they’re seeking the closest exit. “You’re cute, Shortie J, but don’t you think it’s a little early for the dreaded ‘M’ word?”

  I freeze part the way to the door when confusion bombards me. Usually, the ‘M’ reference stands for marriage. This is the first time I’ve used it for motherhood.

  “Shortie J?” His nickname sounds ten times cuter in his thick-accented drawl.

  I peer at him over my shoulder. “Shortie… cause, well… you’re short.”

  “I’m five-nine. That’s the average height of an uomo from my country.”

  “On a good day, but we both know once the stick is removed from your backside, you’ll go back to being five-eight.”

  He either can’t fight back as everything I said was true, or my smart-ass comment was lost in translation. “And the ‘J’ reference?”

  After creeping the last three steps to the door, I press my ear on it. When nothing but the frantic shrill of my pulse is heard, I pry it open with only the slightest creak. Once I’m confident we’re minus a fire-breathing guard, I drag my hand along the stainless-steel plaque glistening on the wooden door—Janitor.

  There should be a rule that short men can’t smile. I already thought this man was a knockout, now I know without a doubt. His teeth are straight, white, and would only look better sunk into my… No, Skylar! Don’t go there.

  My pulse descends several inches when the stranger joins me at the door. I don’t know much about Italian heritage, but I’m going to assume they’re not a fan of personal space. He could only be more up in my business if he were about to give me a pap smear.

  “You think I’m a bidello?”

  “If a bidello…” my attempt at mimicking his accent is horrendous, “… is a janitor, then, yeah, I think you’re one of them.”

  His laugh is so insanely hot, I’m reasonably sure my face isn’t the only thing about to combust—so are my panties. The desperateness it hits me with short-circuits my brain, having me angling my lips closer to the ones cackling away like I asked a multimillionaire if he could spare a quarter.

  It’s not hard to align our mouths since my heels make us the same height.

  With my inner monologue cooling my turbines, Shortie J takes up the slack. “Do you often wish to kiss janitors you’ve only just met, amore mio?”

  His stumble of the word ‘janitors’ is as cute as hell, but I won’t tell him that. I’m already fighting a losing battle over the purr of his last two words. He doesn’t need more ammunition.

  “Only the really cute ones—”

  My reply is cut off by a delicious pair of lips.

  Chapter Two

  Lorenzo

  I’ve kissed plenty of women. Men in my country are connoisseurs of female beauty. We don’t hide our fascination, nor do we repel away from it. We leave no whim unanswered while searching for requited love full of passionate and satisfying exchanges. But, even with my list of beauties extensive enough to give my mamma more gray hairs than she’d like, I’ve never experienced a kiss like this. It’s as hot as this unnamed blonde’s face, as blistering as her body, and as sweltering as the blood thickening my cock.

  I don’t know how we went from fleeing a guard to kissing like we can’t breathe without our lips being attached. I’m reasonably sure she leaned into me in a slow, teasing way, and me, forever impatient, did the opposite.

  What is there to be afraid of? The fast lane is only scary if you crash.

  I anticipated my gall to end in a fiery wreck. All I’m getting is a bruised cock from how hard it’s pressed against my zipper. It could be her big doe eyes having me acting reckless, or the curve of her lips when she insulted me in a way I didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it may even be a smidge of jetlag from the ten-hour flight I endured.

  Whatever it is, it’s risqué and dangerous and everything a foreigner would hope to experience when visiting a country known for its liberty. I thought the women in sequin dresses standing on the corner near the airport were welcoming when I sought directions from them. Their multiple offers to join me for a night of ‘entertainment’ was nothing on the hospitality this unknown blonde is extending.

  I’ll be forthright. The last thing I expected to see when arriving at the 69ers’ home stadium was a naked-breast parade. Don’t misconstrue. There was only one pair of breasts on display, but their perky roundness and generous tilt were enough to make it seem like more.

  I could have walked away and enjoyed the memories, but as I said earlier, Italian men aren’t known for their shyness. We’re not called the experts on perfection for no reason. It requires an in-depth study of the female anatomy—from all angles.

  One glance of the beauties’ rosy-pink nipples deserved another.

  And another.

  And another until I stepped in to help her flee a man as captivated by her beauty as me. My name opens doors my face can’t, but it felt cheap to use it in this situation. I came to America for an adventure. Pretending I couldn’t stop the guard by flashing my credentials ensured this would occur. I’m having the most fun I’ve had in months, and I’m infamous for my philanthropy. It’s part of the job description of every multimillionaire—a status the blonde knows nothing about, yet she is still kissing me with everything she has.

  The knowledge has me deepening our embrace. I steal every moan rumbling up her chest with my tongue, lips, and teeth. It’s a hungry, consuming kiss which leads to us greedily clawing at each other’s clothing as if we’re in the privacy of my hotel suite.

  As she tugs at the trousers now housing her teeth imprint, I slide my hand under the belt she’s wearing as a skirt. Just as the back of my hand brushes the heat making me drunk, a commotion sounds down the hall. For the first time the past ten minutes, it isn’t coming from two strangers mauling each othe
r like savage beasts.

  The unknown blonde yanks back so quickly, her head crashes into the door I have her crowded against. Her massively dilated pupils expand even more when she drinks in a petite blonde and a lady a few years older who’s glare is as fierce as her bob haircut. They’re sporting identical black eyes, but neither has busted knuckles, making me believe they weren’t fighting each other.

  I discover that is the case when the elder of the two snarls, “We were assaulted, yet we’re the ones being arrested. Why?”

  “As stated during your arrest, you’re being detained for the charge of attempting to commit sports bribery,” replies a uniformed officer with a jaw as cut as mine.

  The blonde fights against a second plain-clothes officer’s hold. “How can you charge us with bribery? No money exchanged hands.”

  “Bribery refers to the offering, giving, soliciting, or receiving any item which may influence someone’s decision.” An officer with a receding hairline and a rounded stomach drags his eyes down the blonde’s svelte frame. “Bodies included.”

  The hall becomes crowded when three additional security personnel march two male suspects down the now-congested space. One I recognize from sports broadcasts that reach my side of the planet. He’s the 69ers’ head assistant coach, Mick Salter. The other is unknown.

  A twinge impinges my dick when the blonde I’m pinning to the door with my crotch murmurs, “That’s Lillian Scouse and Coach Salter.” When she wiggles, demanding to be put down, I set her back onto her feet—purtroppo. “Them being arrested together can only mean one thing… we have a felony on our hands.” Her face adopts a look of shock. It’s nowhere near the sexy expression her face wore when my lips inclined toward hers, but it’s still cute. “This is massive. It will be bigger than the federal grand jury indicting eight former athletes from the University of Teladoc.” She smacks herself in the head. “It also explains Elvis’s poor form of late.”

  I don’t know who the fuck Elvis is, but I hate him. Her voice was way too husky for my liking. It could be the effects of our kiss. However, the throb of the pulse in her neck weakens my hypothesis.

  Acting as if her knees aren’t close to buckling, she slaps her hands on my cheeks, smacks a sloppy peck onto my still tingling mouth, then darts down the corridor in the opposite direction her ‘story of the decade’ is going.

  Desperate, I shout, “Can I get your number? Or at least your name?”

  The beauty who stole the air from my lungs long before we kissed pivots around to face me. She’s still fleeing, just backward. A gleam is brightening her eyes. It’s the same daring one that flared through them when our lips collided in the most brutally brilliant way.

  “No.”

  Huh? Did she just say no? My English is not the best, but even a coglione couldn’t mistake that word.

  I peer back at her when she says, “I don’t date short men—”

  “Or janitors,” I interrupt, my tone as playful as her smile.

  I’m not worried about her constant jabs about my height. In my country, I’m a god. Stature doesn’t count when you’re the divinity of all men.

  “Or janitors,” she mimics, smiling. “But… if I happen to stumble upon one brave enough to track me down in a sea of millions…” she spreads her hands above her head, emphasizing the crowd we hear bellowing through the packed bleachers, “… I could be open to the idea.”

  Confident I understand her challenge, she dips her chin in farewell. “Goodbye, Shortie J.”

  The hue her cheeks get when I say, “Arrivederci, amore mio,” will brighten my days for months to come.

  Chapter Three

  Skylar

  I kissed a stranger in a janitor’s closet.

  Correction.

  I kissed a janitor in the bleach-scented cubicle he calls his workplace—and I’m not the least bit antagonized by the fact. I’m absolutely, positively sure a screw wiggled loose in my brain when the yummy-smelling stranger threw me over his shoulder. Otherwise, what excuse do I have for my erratic behavior?

  I could blame the roar of the crowd, but they weren’t noticeable from our hidey-hole. There’s also the wailing libido issue I’ve been tiptoeing through the past four months. Getting up at five in the morning for a boxing class with a man who wouldn’t know flirting if it slapped him in the face has made my nights out basically nonexistent. Then you have the stress of playoffs.

  That must be it. Playoffs.

  Even with my family certifiably mad when it comes to football, playoffs are the bane of my existence. The referees are biased, the coaches are blind to raw talent, and the players are the size of ants from my cheap seat at the very top of the stadium.

  I didn’t need glasses until I commenced purchasing my own tickets.

  As I round the corner at the end of the corridor, my legs extra shaky from the stranger’s mind-hazing kiss, I crash headfirst into a person coming from the opposite direction.

  While rubbing my stingy schnozzle, I take in the man I’ll curse a thousand deaths if he’s broken my nose. I could barely afford my breast augmentation three years ago, so there’s no way I can fork out thousands of dollars for rhinoplasty.

  I didn’t get fake boobs to woo men like I did today. I did it to feel feminine. I either skipped puberty, or my breasts didn’t get the memo that they’re supposed to arrive with my period. My chest was still as flat as a tack when I was eighteen.

  I’m all about loving the skin you’re in, but I hated that my brothers had bigger pecs than me. Although my siblings give me hell for being vain, I’ve never regretted my decision to have my breasts enlarged. Beauty doesn’t begin until you’re honest with yourself. I wasn’t happy, so I made myself happy. If that makes me vain, it’s a title I’ll wear with honor.

  Even with watering eyes, I can confidently declare the man responsible for my throbbing nose is almost as handsome as the one I’m fleeing, except I’m not suspicious he spends hours in front of the mirror primping and pampering every morning. I’m certain of it.

  “Skylar?”

  I step back, stunned—more about his high-pitch voice than the fact he knows my name. “Do we know each other?” My question is muffled by a pair of twisted lips.

  “Willow’s description was impressively accurate. Big cornflower blue eyes, wavy blonde locks, and boobs that could have the ability to turn me straight.”

  I jiggle my chest. “Do they?”

  Even with my ego getting bitch-slapped for the second time today, I can admit his barf-face is super cute. “If I say no, is there a chance I’ll be maimed?”

  “Possibly. I’ve missed two-quarters of the playoff, so I have a good chance of getting away with murder.” I hit him with a playful wink. “Football maniacs have gotten away with more for less.”

  His smile is to die for. Even knowing he’s gay doesn’t stop it from increasing my pulse. Its spike isn’t close to the incline I faced while kissing the unknown man in his workplace of choice, but it’s a spike, nonetheless.

  “Then let me say, they’re a set of assets that would have a gay man considering more than new highlights.”

  “Good reply. We can be friends.” I hold my hand out in offering, all prissy like. “I’m Skylar. Nice to meet you…”

  He accepts my handshake, his dramatics as deviant as mine. “Danny. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Skylar.”

  As Danny ushers me down the corridor, he updates me on the events that occurred during my separation from Willow. It’s a melodramatic tale that is very much on par with Willow.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard about her silencing people with her fists.

  Just as we break through a corridor brightened with natural light, a vision capable of buckling my knees confronts me. Presley he-needs-to-have-my-babies Carlton is jogging down the tunnel separating the field from the locker rooms. His dark locks are saturated with sweat, his 69ers’ uniform shows off every spectacular curve of his body, and he’s moving in slow motion. Think Baywatch
for sports stars.

  “Chin up, baby girl. You’re about to get drool on my shoes.”

  Danny closes my gaped mouth just as Elvis stops in front of us. “Hey, Danny. Is this her?”

  He’s so tall, I have to crank my neck to return his curious stare. When my eyes lock on his, I almost stumble—again. I would if I imagined how ridiculously god-like Shortie J would be if he had Elvis’s height. He’s got him on looks—barely—he’s just minus nine or so inches in height.

  If the object I felt brushing against me when we kissed is anything to go by, Shortie J’s stature is the only thing deficient about him.

  I’m snapped from my naughty thoughts when Lady-Bits-Killer Carlton’s rich voice rumbles through my chest. It’s as thick as his ginormous biceps. “Do you know how I can get in contact with the organizers of the dance recital Willow was supposed to be a part of tonight?”

  “Huh?”

  Don’t act like your reply would have been better than mine. I have a god in front of me. A man who emulates everything football is about. He’s not a prodigy. He’s a great, an idol, a man I’ve flicked the bean to more times than I’ll ever let Willow know, and he’s talking to me. A brain-dead idiot is a perfectly acceptable response, not to mention the fact it’s happening after being kissed so adeptly, I’m struggling to remember Elvis’s jersey number, much less which team he plays for.

  Elvis tries to break through the fog surrounding me. “The dance recital Willow’s been practicing for the past two months. Do you know how I can contact the organizer?”

  It’s endearing he’s taking my daftness in stride for Willow.