Thousand Yard Bride

by Nora Flite

  Narrowing my eyes, I leaned incredibly close to him. “Get a scratch on her and you get a beat down, kid.” The teenager just looked at me, horrified. I added a laugh and then said, “I’m joking."

  He started to smile nervously. "Oh, haha. Gotcha." Tossing him the keys, I delighted at how big his grin was. "I won't scratch it, I promise."

  Shoving my hands in my pants, I threw a two-fingered wave his way. "It's fine. I’d just get a new one. Enjoy.”

  The Haven Oaks Club always reminded me of some place where villains from 80s movies would meet to play poker and smoke cigars while talking about their newest schemes to take over the world. My dad had always reminded me of one of those guys, too.

  He was the owner of the Hawks, their former star player, and to make matters worse he pretty much ran New Haven. The club was like his headquarters where he met with his minions or where he impressed his investors.

  But not today, I thought grimly. Today it'll just be where they both make my life a living hell.

  I made my way through the archway to the grand foyer where Tina, the energetic-as-a-chihuahua concierge, greeted me with a smile.

  “Hi, Tina,” I said.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Daniels. Mr. Daniels Senior is waiting for you in the Veranda Room. Follow me.” I’d been to the club a million times, but Tina always insisted on escorting me around. I didn't mind; I watched her ass in her pencil skirt as it swung in front of me, treating it like a breadcrumb path through the witch's forest.

  When we reached the hostess, Tina gestured politely and bowed her head. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Daniels." I did my best not to be too obvious when I watched her swishing away.

  The hostess cleared her throat. "Shall we?"

  Grinning without any shame, I shrugged. "If you ask nicely."

  She gave me a wink before leading me to my parents’ table. I couldn’t remember her name, only that we’d hooked up several times in the past during whatever boring events my parents forced me to attend. If I had to wear a tux and smile like some idiot, I could at least get a little from the hot hostess between toasts.

  They were at their usual table that overlooked the golf course, sipping their usual drinks, being their usual set-in-stone-routine selves. My dad had a scotch and my mom was nursing her champagne.

  The unusual thing was the hot chick sitting next to my mom.

  I didn't recognize her as one of my dad’s many far-too-young assistants or one of my mom’s unsuspecting mentees from The Women’s League. This chick in a suit worried me. I had figured this was a usual lunch where they’d just unload on me about how I’d messed up lately and threaten or guilt trip me into cleaning up my act.

  I'd already made it easy for them by being late after my night of Vegas fun.

  When I approached the table, the woman in the suit actually stood up to shake my hand. “Hello, Mr. Daniels.” Her throaty voice had my cock stirring, and she had a nice grip that didn't seem to make sense with her soft hands. As she looked me straight in the eyes, she introduced herself. “I’m Joanne Cooke.”

  My dad, always the asshole, said, “You can sit down. We aren’t in a board room, Joanne.”

  I could tell that she was nervous because Joanne blushed a rosy red all the way up her elegant throat. I bet her skin was great for showing off hickies.

  Side-glancing at my dad, I said, “Sorry about him. He’s got a permanent case of asshole-mouth." My dad grunted, no doubt glaring my way, but I wasn't watching him—I was fixated on Joanne and how her soft lips had curled into a pretty bow shape, her hand covering it.

  Ah fuck, I thought distantly. She's trying not to laugh at my joke. I adored people who recognized my dad for the dick he was. I said, "I’m Hunter. Obviously. Pleasure to meet you.”

  She kept eye contact with me with her piecing aqua blues as she mouthed thank you. “Call me Jo." Again, that fucking decadent voice. It didn't fit the vibe she was trying to give off. The only women in suits I was used to seeing were those cookie-cutter lady sportscasters who are desperate to join the boys club.

  Joanne was something else.

  I liked the way her strawberry blonde hair highlighted her face, even if it was pulled too tightly back in some sort of librarian-looking bun. Still, there was a definite sexiness about her. It drew me in.

  My brain sent me unbidden images of myself sliding a hand up the back of her skirt and squeezing the curve of her ass, but the no-nonsense suit and severe hair reminded me to keep my hands off. Part of me wanted to flirt with her anyway, right in front of my parents—it's a move I often used just to piss them off—but then my mother spoke.

  “Do you know why we wanted to meet with you today, Hunter?” she asked.

  “I’m guessing that whoever this lovely lady is has something to do with it,” I shot back breezily. “Let me guess, you want me to sell something. Is it shampoo? You look like you could work for a shampoo company. I always thought I’d be great as the face of a fine line of hair products.”

  “That’s not why she’s here,” my dad said curtly.

  I noticed the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Jo’s mouth.

  “Oh, then maybe power tools? I’m really great with one specific tool,” I said, grinning back at Jo as her smile evaporated. “Why didn't my agent tell me about this? Maybe I need to fire Marty and get a new one. So, what is it, babe? Shampoo, or . . .”

  Jo cut me off, her friendly demeanor suddenly nowhere in sight now that she was caught in the crossfire of my dad’s domineering attitude and my own antagonistic smarm. “I'm not with a company seeking an endorsement deal. I’m here from SportsFire Public Relations. We—”

  Then my dad butted in again. “Junior, we’ve had about enough of your nonsense. You’re an embarrassment to our family and to the entire Hawks franchise.”

  I always thought it was funny that I was the highest paid wide receiver in the league, and yet Mom and Dad couldn't see past a tawdry headline here or there that painted me as a bad boy. In fact, I liked being a bad boy. It was fun. It allowed me to live each day to the fullest, like it might be my last.

  Isn’t that what life’s all about?

  Staring my father down, I said, “Your opinion is that I'm a fuckup. Fine, no surprise."

  “It’s not an opinion, Junior." I hated it when he called me that, and he knew it. “Your unacceptable behavior is precisely why Ms. Cooke is here. With any luck, she'll turn you around.”

  “Is that so?” I shot back, my body going tense. “So that's the game. You hired someone to keep me in line.”

  “Actually,” Jo interjected, her hands up like she could actually smooth the tension between all of us, “it might be more accurate to say I’m here to help you refine your image.”

  “Thanks, darling, but my image is just fine.” I was still staring down at my dad and his ever-present frown. But as irritated as he seemed, I sensed his smugness. He felt like he was winning, like he'd worked me over somehow. If we weren’t in the middle of this restaurant right now, I’d—

  Jo’s hand rested on my arm. It was just a brief, warm press of her fingers, but it was enough to snap me back to reality. Blinking, I marveled at the place she'd touched me.

  “Actually," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "your image isn't fine. Croc-Cooler called your agent, Marty, after this latest . . . misadventure of yours. It’s safe to say you've shaken their confidence.” She cleared her throat, letting the words sink in. “And don’t call me ‘darling,’” she added, before pushing her iPad over to me.

  I stared at the screen, having trouble making sense of it. It was a picture of me and the dancer—who was probably well on her way to enjoying one of Jeannie’s goodbye smoothies—grinding against each other on stage at an upscale but still pretty scandalous-looking strip club.

  My eyes were half open, anyone could tell I was wasted. I struggled to recall when that snapshot was taken as I scrolled down and read the article. Vegas was a blurry experience. What wasn’t blurry was the Croc-C
ooler t-shirt I'd been wearing that night.

  Fuck. That about summed up my feelings right then.

  On one level I was humiliated. I knew I'd messed up big. But with my father right there, his grin twisting up infuriatingly, I couldn't admit my mistake.

  Straightening up, I leaned close enough to Jo that I could smell her. “Well, what can I say, sweetie. I like to have a good time.”

  She bristled at the word ‘sweetie’ but kept her composure. “I’m glad for you. But Marty says you are this close to losing your sponsorship with Croc-Cooler. They make beverages for hard-working guys, not drunk assholes . . . sweetie.”

  This girl had some serious nerve.

  It was kind of a turn on.

  Tucking my thumbs in my belt, I said, “Mom, Dad, and . . . what was it again?"

  “Jo.” She wasn’t smiling.

  I was. “What’s done is done. I don't have a time machine, so I don't know what you expect me to do about this.” I leaned back and put my hands behind my head.

  “You may not know what to do, Hunter,” Jo said. “But I do.”

  Then my dad took over the conversation. “Jo is going with you tonight to the Croc-Cooler event in Los Angeles. Starting right now, you are not to be out of her sight. She will accompany you on the jet, stay by your side, and make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

  “What? A babysitter?” I choked out, sensing my father’s gloating from across the table.

  “I think ‘handler’ might be more accurate,” Jo said carefully.

  My mom, Victoria, looking like her usual poised self in a Chanel suit and perfectly styled hair added, “It will be good for you, honey. You’re almost twenty-six. Time to slow down.” She put her hand on mine.

  That would have had more impact if I didn't know she had her own motives. My parents were both similar; always worried about the family name.

  I pulled away, not enjoying being painted like some kind of child who needed to be on a leash. I could take care of myself.

  I always had.

  My eyes darted to Jo. She didn't even flinch; impressive. “And what if I say no to this?”

  Dad grunted, reaching for his glass. “I don’t think you’ll find that to be an option, Junior. It's not only the Croc-Cooler deal that's at risk. All of your other campaigns will fall down like dominoes if you make a fool of yourself again. And don’t think that the Hawks will keep such a liability around.”

  This was getting serious. Very carefully, I said, “That would be a huge mistake. People come to the games to see me catch the damn ball.”

  “Yes, son, you score touchdowns, but there’s more to this sport than what you can do on the field. You know I control the team. If I wanted to, I could have you cut in a heartbeat. And with your reputation I doubt it would be easy to get another decent offer, even if it weren’t too late in the season to find another team willing to take a risk on you.”

  My mom looked at me with a pleading stare, nervously twisting her wedding band around her finger like she was screwing it onto her joint. This was serious; Dad wasn't kidding. My career would be over before I ever got a chance to really prove myself. I’d never live it down.

  It wasn’t just about showing up my dad, either. It was about doing what I was made to do: to play, to win. To conquer. Not because my daddy got me on the team, not because my family had money, not because of politics. But because I was talented enough, I worked my ass off, and I never backed down on the field.

  But if achieving my life’s dream meant I’d have to back down right now . . .

  Then so be it.

  “Fine," I said. "I’ll take your little security guard here with me when I go to LA.” I turned to Jo and added, “I just hope you packed a cocktail dress, sweetie.”

  2

  Jo

  Two weeks before I met Hunter Daniels Junior, I lost my dream job with Chloe Sutton Publicity. I was forced to take a job at SportsFire P.R. so I could keep paying off my student loans. And although I didn't like the idea of dealing with some egotistical beefcake, at least it wouldn't be boring. Managing Hunter would be hard, but I was up for the challenge.

  I'd had one week before my new job at SportsFire. To prepare, I'd read up on all of Hunter’s and the Hawks’ stats. To counter the stress of starting a new job so fast, I spent my last free days hitting the rock wall at ClimbTime Gym with Lanie—my younger sister, best friend, and climbing partner in crime.

  We’d gotten into rock-climbing in college. Lanie liked that it kept her fit in spite of all the partying she was doing back then; I liked that it allowed me to blow off steam. I’d always been an overachiever, and in college the stress got to me.

  I found that challenging myself to make it to the top of a rock wall—or better yet, a mountain—was both difficult and fulfilling. After doing it so often, I started to associate rock climbing with my career. I wanted to climb the corporate ladder so badly. I wanted to make it to the top of everything I did, literally. That’s what made my fall from Sutton P.R. so devastating.

  I hadn't seen Lanie in some time, so I wasn't exactly surprised when the first question out of her mouth as we stretched in the gym was, “So, what happened with your old job? I thought it was going great. And now all of a sudden you’re leaving?”

  The wound was fresh, talking about that whole mess wasn't doing much for my stress—but I could never keep Lanie in the dark. “It wasn’t by choice. Chloe set me up. You know the model Camille von Ella?”

  “The one who just checked into rehab?” Lanie asked.

  “That’s her. Well, she was Chloe’s client, and when Chloe found out she had fallen off the wagon, she passed the account to me. I thought I was getting promoted! Chloe didn’t mention the drugs. Then Camille collapsed on a runway, broke down at a photoshoot, hit a paparazzo while driving her SUV under the influence, and lost all her other endorsements within a few weeks. She was a walking disaster, even when she couldn't walk.”

  Lanie winced. “I guess Chloe didn't take the heat, then.”

  “Nope. Just me. After I figured out what was going on, I convinced Camille to check into rehab. She’s a really sweet girl, so I was happy she did that, but the damage was already done,” I said as I put on my climbing harness.

  “I can’t believe Chloe would do that to you!"

  “I should have known better. This is public relations, and you can't work in it if you yourself look bad. Chloe would stop at nothing to protect herself.”

  Brushing her hair back, Lanie said, “She sounds awful. Guess you don't have to work with her anymore, so there's some light in this tunnel. New question. How'd you get this other gig? I didn't know sports were your thing.”

  That got a laugh out of me. “Remember Dan from college? He works at SportsFire. He hooked me up, but warned me that this would be a hard job. Actually, the exact words he used were something along the lines of throwing me into the flames to see if I could swim.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Lanie said.

  “Didn't have to. Fire is bad, it's always bad." We started up the wall, my voice straining. "I guess I should have seen it as a warning. It'll certainly be a challenge."

  "You like challenges," she said, rushing to climb faster than me. I took her cue, racing up the wall and letting my anxiety start to fade.

  "Yeah," I said, huffing. "I just have to convince Hunter Daniels to lose the bad boy act. But really, how hard can it be?”

  Lanie laughed so loud it echoed through the gym. “You do look at the internet, right? I don't know if that boy can be tamed.”

  The internet was my enemy right now. Everything about Hunter was half-naked or full on nudes, sex scandals, and over the top parties; the guy was a headline generator. “Once he realizes that there's more to life than partying—that his career is more important—he'll clean up. He has to.”

  “He strikes me as one of those guys who thinks they’re invincible. That nothing will ever catch up to them,” Lanie said as she gained a little
height on me.

  Gripping at the fake rocks, I felt my shoulders straining. “Maybe there’s more to him than that. I think I just need to show him that partying and success don’t go hand in hand."

  “Oh, my dear sweet sister, if only you knew the true joys of partying. But seriously, try not to sleep with him."

  I fumbled, her comment had caught me so incredibly off guard. “Lanie! How could you even suggest that?” I scoffed as I scrambled the rest of the way up the rock wall. Sleep with Hunter? Sleep with a client? I'd never be so reckless.

  “How could I suggest that? Let’s see. Oh, right, maybe it’s because he’s super fucking hot, Jo. And you know how he is with women. You’re really gonna have your hands full.”

  “Right. Like I’m really dying to jump in the sack with the guy who gets caught grinding on strippers. That just screams professional.” Even though I was rolling my eyes at her insane suggestion, I still managed to beat Lanie to the top. The rush of winning—even this tiny bit—was glorious.

  After we rappelled down, I said, “Even if I wanted to have sex with the jerk, this is my career. If I mess this up, I’m done in P.R. Done for good, Lanie. I have to keep my wits about me and my pants on."

  “But what a fantastic story it would be, sis." Her mischievous smile gave me goosebumps. “And then we’d know for sure if the stories about his huge dick are true.” I couldn't help but smile back. People told us all the time that we shared the same smile our father had been known for.

  “I’m more focused on his image, Lanie, not what’s inside his pants.”

  “Oh, come on, you have to wonder what the guy who's been voted ‘Hottest Man Alive’ two years in a row is like in bed."

  "It doesn't matter what a guy can do in bed, Lanie."

  "Says the girl who's only dated twice in her lifetime."

  Lanie was right. After breaking up with Aaron, my long-term boyfriend during college, I hadn’t felt the need to date much. We’d looked good together and were comfortable enough with each other, but I couldn’t get over the fact that after three years we treated each other more like roommates than soulmates, that we’d never had any ‘spark.’