Snap Count

by Daphne Loveling

  I will say one thing for Centro, though.

  The women here are smokin’.

  Every time I’ve been here, it’s like a hot girl smorgasbord. What’s more, the girls who come here dress to show off exactly what they have going on, and to tell you in no uncertain terms that they’re available. It’s almost too easy. Even if I wasn’t the quarterback of the city’s pro football team, the Springville Rockets, I’d pretty much have my choice of pussy here. As it is, the parade of women trying to get my attention is almost too much. It’s nearly enough to get me to take refuge in the VIP section, just to get a break from it.

  It was Zach Johnson, my center, who convinced the other five of us to go to Centro tonight. The chick he’s currently banging had never been here and was dying to go, so he promised to get her in. She’s hanging on his arm right now, her large tits practically spilling out of her hot pink dress onto the table as Zach and I engage in a half-drunk arm-wrestling match. For a second I consider letting him win to make a good impression on the girl, whose name is Natasha. But in the end, my competitive nature wins out, and I wait for just the right moment before slamming his hand back onto the table and declaring victory.

  “Fuck!” Zach yells, oblivious to the irritated stares that are being cast our way. “Again, you douchebag! Other arm this time.”

  I grin. “You really think that’s gonna make a difference?” Next to Zach, Natasha pushes her lips into a little pout and glances at me with a sly little smile. Is she seriously flirting with me with Zach right here? I think in disbelief. In another situation, I might be interested in hitting that, but I don’t break the bro code.

  I’m about to accept Zach’s demand for a rematch when something just at the corner of my field of vision catches my attention. I look up just in time to see a dark-haired beauty flicking her eyes away from me. She’s dressed in a form-fitting black dress that hugs all her curves perfectly. She’s dressed to blend in with the other women here, but there’s something… different about her. Something less studied. Instead of pouring herself into a too-tight outfit and hobbling around in impossibly high heels like most of the girls in the crowd, she makes the simplicity of her black dress and low sandals look even hotter. As she turns to the friend who’s with her, I take a second to watch her movements. They’re unstudied, effortless. Like she hasn’t spent hours in front of a mirror perfecting every move. She’s got on only a fraction of the makeup most girls wear to clubs, and I study her dark eyes and full lips as she says something to the red-headed girl next to her. Her friend is pretty, too, but at least to me, she can’t hold a candle to the brunette.

  The girl casts a quick glance toward us and reddens, and I know the two of them are talking about our group. I know we’re being pretty loud, and probably obnoxious. I also know the club won’t do a damn thing about it. It’s worth it to them to have the star power of the Rockets here.

  Even though I’m waist-deep in pussy over here, something about the brunette makes me want to know more about her, to get a little closer and see what she’s about. Just then, redhead leans toward her and murmurs something that makes the brunette turn toward me, her eyes widening. She locks eyes with me and catches her lower lip between her teeth.

  My dick hardens in response.

  The girl hasn’t been watching our group. She’s been watching me.

  Game on.

  Most hot women who recognize me don’t waste a lot of time making small talk. They just waltz right up and stick their tits in my face to let me know they’re available. So the fact that the brunette is trying to pretend she’s not checking me out is sort of cute. It’s intriguing. I get the feeling she’s not gonna come over to our table, with all the other women around, so I figure I’ll move away from the group and give her a shot.

  I peel away the clingy blonde who’s attached herself to my arm, and stand. By now, the brunette has turned away from me, and I get an eyeful of her sexy little ass as she shifts from one foot to another. I start making my way toward her, telling myself I’m gonna grab another drink from the bar even though I could have just as easily waited until the waitress comes back to our table.

  “Excuse me,” I say, stopping in front of her.

  Her eyes widen a little more as they lock on mine. A flush of color comes to her cheeks as her lips part to answer me.

  “Yes?” she says.

  Up close, she’s not just pretty, she’s downright gorgeous. As I stare down at her, I realize why she’s not wearing that much makeup: she’s got the kind of features that women spend hours trying to imitate with concealers and contouring and shit. Her mouth is still open just slightly, and as I glimpse the slight pink of her tongue I almost groan as I imagine her wrapping her lips around my cock.

  I almost say what I’m thinking — I mean hell, most women I know wouldn’t need much more of an invitation than that — but something tells me that the direct approach will put her off. Instead, for some reason, I decide to try some reverse psychology.

  “I’m trying to get to the bar,” I say. “You’re standing in my way.”

  She blinks, once, and her mouth closes. Her face flushes, even though it’s not that hot in here. “Oh,” she responds, and I think — I hope — I can hear just the slightest tone of disappointment in her voice. She starts to step back to let me through, but then stops, and her eyes flash hot. “So, you couldn’t have just gone around us?” she challenges, nodding her head to the right, where there’s a clear path to the bar. “You have to make us move?”

  She’s right. There’s definitely plenty of room for me. I should probably just concede the point. But I don’t.

  Instead, like an asshole, I say, “Or, you could just move to one side, so I can get through.” Because I want to see her eyes flash again.

  I’m not disappointed.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” she says, her voice rising. She’s really starting to get pissed off, and God help me, it’s cute and sexy as hell. I can’t suppress a grin, and it just makes her madder.

  Beside her, the redheaded friend murmurs, “Uh, I’m just gonna go to the little girls’ room.” She slips away, leaving the two of us alone.

  The brunette is practically fuming now, but something in her eyes tells me that’s not all that’s going on. Her breathing speeds up a little, and her chest begins to rise and fall with each shallow breath, her lips parting slightly. She’s pissed, sure, but she’s fighting something else. She’s turned on, and getting hotter by the minute. Hell, I’m right there with her, to tell the truth. The thickening of my cock is making me impatient. I’m done with the games.

  “Look, sweetheart,” I say to her. “This playing hard to get game is cute, and everything, but don’t waste your energy. I saw you pretending not to look at me over there” — I cock my head towards the table where my buddies are still carousing — “so we can just skip the formalities and get right to the good part.” I drag my eyes away from her face and let them fall slowly down her body, lingering deliberately on her full, round tits. My dick jumps in my pants. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to press her up a wall somewhere, push that tight little dress up over her thighs, and plunge myself deep inside her hot, waiting pussy.

  Unfortunately, she seems to be committed to holding on to her little temper tantrum. “‘Sweetheart’?” she says in astonishment. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you always such a pig to women, or am I just special?”

  “Look,” I smirk, holding out my hands. “You were the one making eyes at me, after all. I’m just helping you out since you seemed a little intimidated.”

  A loud laugh bursts from her as she rolls her eyes. “Why the hell would I be intimidated by a jerk like you? Good Lord, you’re full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  I open my mouth to respond, and then it hits me.

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?” I ask. My lips curl into a half-grin of disbelief.

  “No,” she says hotly. “Why, should I?”

  “That depends. Do
you live in a cave?”

  She rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Look, I don’t know who you are, or who you’re pretending to be, and frankly, I couldn’t care less. As far as I can tell, you’re just an arrogant asshole who thinks total strangers should bow and scrape at the sight of you.”

  Holy hell. When’s the last time I’ve even talked to a girl who doesn’t know who I am? Jake Ryland is a household name in this town. Even trying to go incognito with my off-season beard, my face has been on the front page of so many sports sections — as well as in the gossip columns — that practically everyone in the city seems to recognize me. I can hardly leave my damn house without someone coming up to me for an autograph or asking me to take a selfie with them. I’ve never had to try very hard to get women, but fame has made it almost ridiculously easy, and as a result, I’ve barely made more of an effort than crooking my little finger since I signed on to the Rockets.

  This girl, though… She has no idea that practically every woman in this club would cut off their right arm to be with me. It’s… well, exciting. A challenge. The kind of challenge I haven’t had in a really long time.

  I draw closer to her, enjoying the way she pulls in a sharp breath as my hand reaches up to graze the soft skin of her shoulder. To tell the truth, she’s having the same effect on me, though I’m hiding it better. I’m towering over her, my mouth less than a foot from hers, and I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to kiss someone as bad in my whole damn life. “Sweetheart, believe me,” I chuckle, lowering my voice so it’s just her and me in our own little universe. “When you find out what I can do to that hot little body of yours, you’ll be bowing and scraping along with the best of them.”

  It’s not my best line, but hell, I haven’t had to trot out my best lines in quite a while. So I guess it shouldn’t be too much of a shock that it doesn’t have quite the effect I intended. She takes a quick step back to increase the distance between us, then squares her shoulders and gives me a cold look. “Don’t hold your breath, you arrogant jerk,” she seethes. Flashing me a look of pure loathing that’s not quite as convincing as she wants it to be, she turns on her heel and heads in the direction of the bathrooms. I’m guessing she’s gone to find her friend, and the wind goes out of my sails just a bit when I realize I’ve probably blown my chance with this one.

  It’s a weird feeling, one I haven’t experienced in quite a while. I don’t like it.

  Shaking off my defeat, I head back to the table where my friends are still carousing and order another round of tequila shots for everyone. Then I proceed to drown my sorrows in the chesty blonde who’s been trying all night to get my attention. She’s excited that I’m finally showing her some interest, and she presses herself up against me, sticking her tits in my face to make it clear I can have anything I want from her. But all I can think of is a pair of dark eyes that were flashing fury and desire at me just moments ago.

  I get hard as a rock instantly, and the girl giggles and moves closer, thinking it’s for her. I slam back a tequila shot and try to get interested, but even though she’s objectively hot as hell, something feels off. Mechanically, I move one hand to cup her ass and palm her breast with the other. She moans against me and kisses me on the mouth, and I kiss her back for a moment, but I’m just not feeling it. I pull away from her and grab another shot, ignoring her mewl of protest. Tonight, between booze and pussy, I choose booze.

  Chapter 3

  Marinda

  Kate’s not happy with me when I find her in the bathroom and demand to leave Centro, but the look on my face must convince her not to argue too much.

  “Come on,” she says unhappily as she follows me out of club. “It’s just one guy. You told him to fuck off, right? So, he’ll probably ignore you now. Why can’t we just stay and have a good time?”

  But adrenaline is pumping through my veins and I’m too furious to be in the same room with that asshole. I’ve definitely been hit on by jerks before, but never by one this shameless. He was so sure of himself, so sure that all he had to do was say the word and I’d be putty in his hands. God, it was so infuriating.

  And what makes it even more infuriating? Even though I’m seething with anger, part of me actually was curious about what it would feel like to have his large, strong hands on me. A traitorous, shameful part.

  Because I’m an independent woman, dammit. I’m not some sort of bimbo who lets guys treat me like that. I’ve got more self-respect than to be like one of the plastic babes that were hanging around him and the other muscle-bound bros at his table. So as I stomp off toward Kate’s car, my brain berates my body for responding in pretty much exactly the way he wanted it to. If I’d been a little stupider, or a little drunker… well, let’s just say I’m glad I have too much self-respect to give that cocky ass the satisfaction.

  Even though there is a small but persistent ache between my legs that follows me all the way to the car.

  “Where do you want to go next?” Kate murmurs, pouting a little.

  I sigh. “Honestly? I think I’d rather just call it a night.” It’s a little after eleven-thirty and I have to work tomorrow. Plus, my encounter with King Asshole has pissed me off so much I know I’ll be lousy company for the rest of the night. Better to just sleep it off and hope that tomorrow the whole damn thing will feel like ancient history.

  Kate is obviously not happy, but she doesn’t press it. “I should take my birthday present back,” she mumbles crankily as we get into her car. When she pulls up at my place, I thank her for taking me out and apologize for being a wet blanket, knowing that she’ll forgive me eventually. Then I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, peel off my clothes, and lie awake in bed for far too long, staring at the ceiling and trying to put out of my mind how quickly the handsome smirk of a total stranger has gotten under my skin.

  The next morning, I wake up with a mouth full of cotton to see that the sun is completely up already. With a sickening adrenaline rush, I realize that I must have shut off my phone alarm during the night.

  By scrambling like a maniac and foregoing breakfast, I manage to be only nine minutes late getting to the office. Thankfully, it’s not one of the days I arrive to find a voicemail from my boss, Rose, asking me to call her as soon as I get in.

  Rose Fowler, the founder of the Give A Wish Foundation, is a local socialite — practically the most powerful woman in Springville. Her late husband was a real estate mogul who’d owned approximately half of downtown at the time of his death. Now in her late fifties but looking at least a decade younger — thanks to unknown amounts of cosmetic surgery and regular sessions with her personal trainer — Rose spends her days lunching with her other socialite friends, planning extravagant parties, and overseeing the charitable organization she founded. And by “overseeing,” I mean mostly calling me at all hours of the day under the guise of some question or suggestion, but really just to check up on me and make sure I’m carrying out her orders exactly as she gave them to me.

  To someone meeting her for the first time, Rose comes across as a lovely, genteel person on the surface, elegant and polished. Underneath, however, she’s all steel: cold, powerful, and inflexible. She has a way of making the staff at Give A Wish quake in their boots whenever she decides to show up, inevitably unannounced, at our offices. She can make a grown woman cry with a simple look more easily than any man could by shouting and shaking his fists at them. Believe me — I’ve seen it. She’s formidable, she’s demanding, and she does not brook any argument once she’s made up her mind.

  I have very little idea how Rose feels about me as a person. She’s the type of woman who treated her own husband with the same restrained formality that she would treat the maître d’ of a high end restaurant. I’ve only been interim director of the foundation for six months, and I live in perpetual fear that one day she’ll decide I’m not measuring up to her standards and I’ll lose the job that I’ve worked for years to get.

  So my relief upon arriving late at work and not find
ing a message from her demanding that I call her is palpable. Rose could call me on my cell phone any time, of course, but usually she prefers to ring me on my office line, and it’s hard not to think it’s because she likes to keep tabs on when I am and am not in the office.

  My assistant, Cara, is on the phone when I get in — her cell phone, mind you. Cara’s been working for me for about two months, and even though her résumé looked pretty solid when I hired her, I’m not sure she’s going to work out.

  At that moment, her desk phone rings, and she continues chatting as though nothing’s happening. I pantomime her hanging up and she flicks her eyes at me and holds up a hand. Exasperated, I pick up the phone and take the call myself, which ends up being for me, anyway. When I’m done with the conversation, Cara is still on her cell, and by this time I’ve realized she’s talking to her boyfriend, Dylan. Crossing my arms, I lean against her desk and stare at her until she gets the hint.

  “I gotta go, Dylan,” she says. “I’ll call you later.”

  “At the risk of sounding obvious,” I tell her when she’s hung up, “I don’t pay you to talk to your boyfriend all day. I pay you, among other things, to answer the phone.”

  Cara shrugs her shoulders and just avoids rolling her eyes at me. “The call will go to voicemail if I don’t pick up,” she explains patiently, as if I’m a child.

  “If I wanted the calls to go straight to voicemail, then why did I hire you, Cara?” I mutter crossly, with the sinking feeling that I’m fighting a losing battle.

  “It that one of those questions where you ask it but you don’t really want an answer?” she asks.

  Oh. My God. “Honestly, Cara, I’m not sure if I want to hear your answer or not,” I reply, shaking my head. “Just please, answer the damn phone, will you?”