The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5)

by Piper Westbrook

  Nothing would help her ride out the orgasm.

  Bucking under him, she surrendered to a succession of moans, each louder than the one preceding it. His name belonged in her mouth, and his mouth belonged on her.

  “Taste this,” he commanded, sliding up her body. Kissing her, he tantalized her with lips slick from her own come. “I dreamed about this.”

  After he rolled a condom into place, she asked, “You’ve been dreaming about me, Remy?”

  He didn’t answer her—not with words. Drawing up her knees, he thrust into her, spearing her, coming back to her in a way she hadn’t believed was possible before finding him waiting for her in a library.

  Remy leaned until she could hug his shoulders. He’d given her something to hold on to. Watching his face as he moved inside her, she knew.

  On some level that was deeper than friendship or fucking, she’d gotten to him.

  But, as they lay together with her weak leg draped over him and his hand on her scar, she said nothing.

  Remy was the first to speak. “I’m gonna get your cane now.”

  “Sending me on a walk of shame to my bedroom?” she murmured against his chest.

  “No. There’s no shame in this.”

  “I know. It was always good between us.”

  “That clock on the wall says it’s almost eleven, and your growling stomach says you need to eat. Do you?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “So…” Remy looked at her with concern and care and something that resembled love, but she quickly shook off the thought as after-fuck fever. “Let’s get you back into that sexy dress. I’m taking you out.”

  * * *

  A poppin’ party was throwing down at Omar’s Spring Valley house. Cristal was on tap, guests stripped to their underwear and bling were playing Marco Polo in the pool, and the live music could probably be heard in the depths of the Mojave Desert.

  But he’d disappeared. If any of the folks shooting his alcohol, eating his food, or sopping up the luxury of the top-quality amenities his backbreaking career paid for were to notice he was missing, he’d be effing shocked.

  A few teammates had hassled him to play host, and he had no one’s ass to kick but his own for yielding. They’d survived the first day of training camp hell—cool. Opening his place in the city to teammates who didn’t have the sense to R.I.C.E. their battered bodies in Desert Luck Center’s residence hall wasn’t his idea of a celebration.

  Most of the people walking through his rooms and touching his shit were strangers—midprofile celebrities, riffraff blown in off the street, rented women with expert mouths and nightly rates.

  Security would hold down Spanish Heights Drive—that was what he paid them for. Duncan Torsay on defense said he’d keep his own guests in line, but who knew if he would? Omar was no man’s keeper. For all the brotherhood talk he’d heard during practices and meetings, he accepted that for every position there were at least two men each fighting to make it his. When the man breaking bread with you in the cafeteria was both your comrade and your adversary, there was no brotherhood.

  Getting away wouldn’t get him out of his head. Which was why he hadn’t yet left his neighborhood. His Chevy Suburban LTZ dominated the curb in front of a stucco two-story half the square footage of his house. Sitting on the hood, he sent a text message and craned his neck to search the darkened windows to see which would illuminate.

  Arched balcony doors, he predicted, tossing his phone from hand to hand. There would be no reply text, just a slip of a woman poking her head out into the summer night to give him hell…before ultimately going along with whatever impulse he wanted her to get all wrapped up in.

  A few minutes passed, and he paused, flipping over his phone to check to see if she’d replied, after all.

  Nothing.

  Weird. It was kissing midnight and she had a quirk about sleeping instead of compensating with early-morning energy drinks and B-12 shots. So she had to be home…right?

  As he was about to slide off the truck’s hood, the arched balcony doors glowed golden and the draperies swayed.

  You’re predictable, Nat, he thought with an amused grin, leaning back against the windshield.

  Natsuko Kato pushed open one of the doors and shot across the balcony. A curtain of jet-black hair swung back and forth over an orange hoodie. “Scenes like this should really be left to Shakespeare, Romeo,” she said in that waspish tone she borrowed whenever his spontaneity shook up her routine.

  “That’d make you Juliet? Nah.” He chuckled. Natsuko would punch him if he accused her of being emotional, passionate, or lovesick. “And I’m nobody’s Romeo.”

  “I’ll say,” she served back, but their banter had diluted her irritation. “Romeo wouldn’t blaze through Verona blasting—Is that ‘Moon River’?”

  “Come out here and find out,” he enticed.

  “No. I have an early morning. As do you.”

  “Natsuko, I can just hang out here on the curb. But when I get bored with instrumentals, I might put the rap on.”

  “There’s already plenty of rap coming from one of these party houses.”

  “That’d be mine.”

  “You’re throwing a party? Wow. Just…wow.” She sounded equal parts amazed and disappointed. “Good night, Omar. I’m getting back in bed, which is where I’ve been since the storm kicked out the power.”

  “The power’s been back on for a while. It’s early, even for you.”

  “Yeah, well, pharmacists perform best when well rested. I’d venture to say the same about athletes, but apparently, partying and playing works for you.”

  Omar’s hands cushioned his head as he watched the sky. When the storm left, it’d taken the heavy clouds with it. Minuscule dots of silver filtered through as though someone had poked the sooty blanket with a needle. “Then I’ll get comfortable here. Or you can come down and hear me out.”

  “Fine. I’m coming.”

  He was still in that position, watching the starry sky, when Natsuko rushed outside to the Suburban and confirmed, “You are listening to ‘Moon River.’ On repeat.”

  “You’re surprised.”

  “We don’t have the same taste in music. Now, if I can get you out of your superstar NFL player bubble long enough to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, then you might actually be tolerable.”

  “I belong in that bubble.” It was a dream and a nightmare, but he’d wanted it since he was a kid growing up poor in the ghetto.

  “What are you doing here if you’ve got some VIP party going on at your place?”

  Damn. The ice in her voice could give a man frostbite in the middle of summer. What was up with her?

  He and Natsuko lived in the same neighborhood—they’d met months ago when her dog had slipped his leash and wound up pissing on Omar’s garage door—but they moved on different wavelengths. She had a PhD, wore a white coat, was in bed by midnight. He was drafted to the NFL his senior year of college, had his name smeared through sports media, and was the man to call on when you wanted to get messed up.

  They were friends, though. She wasn’t trying to claw into his world, and he liked having her within reach when the cameras and entourages got to be too much.

  “I don’t feel like entertaining folks,” he told her.

  Natsuko put her backside to the truck and looked up. “Then why order the food and hire the musicians and invite the guests?”

  “Unwise decisions. Wasn’t my idea, but nobody forced me to come into the city and unleash that—” he paused and the boom of bass beats surged through the air “—on the neighborhood.”

  “So shut it down. Ask everyone to leave.” She turned toward him. When folks talked about having stars in their eyes, they usually didn’t mean it literally. He thought it applied perfectly to the light reflected in Natsuko’s deep-set eyes. They were usually behind a pair of plastic-framed glasses, and he guessed he’d never before tried to look closer than
that. “I can’t rescue you from your unwise party, Omar.”

  “I’m rescuing myself. That’s why I split.” When she lightly jabbed him in the ribs, he took her hand in his. The contrast of her white skin against his dark skin reminded him of yin yang, and he liked that. “Come with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come with me.” He sat up, got a more complete look at her. “The hoodie’s all right, but you should probably change out of the Daffy Duck sweatpants.”

  “Donald.”

  “What?”

  “Daffy’s the naked Looney Tunes duck. Donald’s the Disney duck with the sailor getup.” She plucked at the fabric and seemed a little self-conscious. “Anyway, go home and find someone else to take off with you. I’m sure you’ll find dozens of hot women tripping over themselves for you.”

  For his wallet, no doubt. “You’re as hot as any of them. Plus, on second thought, the pants are kind of sexy.”

  Natsuko’s starry-sky eyes widened—softened, even. “Serious?”

  “Completely. Come with me. Let’s hit up a club or a casino or something. 1 OAK in the Mirage. We might find you a man tonight.”

  “Oh.” Natsuko wiggled her hand from his grip.

  “So what’s good with you?” Omar asked, hopping off the truck.

  “Okay, I’ll go. But I’ve got to check on Brewster and change my clothes first. Donald Duck pants aren’t going to get me past the doorman at 1 OAK.”

  He laughed as she dashed back into her house. By the time she reemerged, he was in the driver’s seat and the radio tuned to rap but at a volume that didn’t have neighbors pressing their faces to the windows and eyeing him with consternation.

  When he saw her, his hand slipped on the steering wheel and he thanked God the truck was still in Park.

  Natsuko’s glasses were in place and her hair hanging to her waist in a shiny sheet, but she looked different.

  The slinky purple shirt was too tight—maybe that was it. Or the silver high heels too tall. Or the leather pants too…leather.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, coming up to his window, then glancing back at her house. “Concern is written all over this.” She circled her hand in front of her face.

  The lipstick, he thought, his attention bolting to her devil-red mouth. That had to be the anomaly. Natsuko didn’t paint her lips. She was all about balm and she smelled like peaches whenever she rubbed the stuff on.

  She didn’t smell like peaches as she climbed into the passenger’s seat and put her purse down at her feet.

  “You smell like chocolate,” he said.

  “Oh—yeah.” She snorted. “I ate a candy bar on the way out.”

  “Aren’t you eating when we get to the club?”

  “Of course.” She peeled back her lips. “Do I have Hershey’s in my teeth?”

  He clicked on the interior lights and inspected. “All clear. You look…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” He couldn’t piece together a thought that’d make sense. In that outfit she’d have no problem cruising past doormen at any of Vegas’s clubs. But she wasn’t the beanie-hats-and-flat-shoes Natsuko he was used to. He’d come to her because he could always count on her to look the same, act the same, be the same.

  “Whenever you’re ready…” She pointed to the steering wheel.

  Ready for stuff to spin, change, and drift out of control again? No, he wasn’t. Life started to level out after the Chargers traded him to the Villains last season, but he had spent too much time in steroids-withdrawal fog and still hadn’t broken away from his usual crowd. He was close enough to hang with the friends he’d cut up with when he was in California. And as his uncle had told him, he was only as good as the company he kept.

  As far as off-field friendships, he had very few—and wasn’t all that assured in the genuineness of most of them. A couple of veterans on the team were solid and up for anything. The team’s female trainer, Waverly, she was all right, but she had a man who was getting most of her time now. That left Omar with the hipster neighborhood girl whose Doberman had a nasty habit of marking territory that didn’t belong to him.

  But if he lost Natsuko…

  “One of these days,” she said as he pulled off the curb, “I’m not going to be here to save you from yourself.”

  She was here tonight, though, fiddling around with his radio because it irked him and talking over the music anyway, and that had to be his solace.

  1 OAK was at Friday night capacity. Natsuko chose the room. Immediately, they let the killin’ DJ coax them into dancing, then he treated her to a burger and they settled at the bar with a bottle of vodka. The high energy and jazzed crowd let him pretend he could be anonymous for a couple of hours.

  “Is this really as excellent as I think it is, or is the whopping price tag influencing my taste buds?” Natsuko asked, setting her lipstick-stained glass on the bar and twisting around the Cîroc to read the label.

  “It’s excellent vodka,” he confirmed.

  “I’m still baffled that you spent hundreds of bucks just to drink with me. A Big Gulp would’ve been okay.” She took another swallow. “Oooh, that’s perfect.”

  Omar chuckled. She was real in everything she did. No facades or hidden agendas. He was about to fill his glass when he saw a toss of golden-brown hair and beauty that dudes he’d studied in college wrote poems about.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Look at your thirsty ass,” he heard Natsuko say, and he found her wearing an I-know-what-you’re-doing smirk and shaking her head.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Just saying, I’d put this bottle in front of you, but you’re not thirsty for a drink. You know her?”

  “Met her,” he acknowledged, glancing at Meg Fuentes again. Wrapped in tight silk, she leaned against the bar. At Desert Luck she’d carried around a cane, but he couldn’t see it with stools and people obstructing his view. “She’s a narc. She’s involved in some drug program the front office put together for camp.”

  “Ah. Did someone fail the test?”

  “The annual pissing event hasn’t happened yet,” he told her, holding Meg in his sights.

  “Pretty. You aim high, don’t you?” Natsuko cocked her head. “I think she’s alone. Let’s go say hi.”

  “You’re not going,” he said, turning her back to the bar when she swiveled on her stool.

  “Why not? She knows drugs, I know drugs—we can talk shop. Or are you afraid I’ll tell her you want to have plenty of sex and babies with her?” She shrugged at his withering glare. “Fine, abandon the woman you brought here and go to her.”

  Omar hesitated. “Are you mad?”

  “No.” She smiled, lifted her drink. “Really, go to her. We’re at 1 OAK. I won’t be lonely.”

  He took the vodka bottle—which earned him a double take from Natsuko—and made his way to Meg.

  “Care for some Cîroc?” he offered, his voice competing with the ear-ringing noise. Meg leaned close and he repeated the question.

  “I don’t have a glass.”

  “Consider that problem solved,” he said, snagging the bartender’s attention.

  “I shouldn’t, Omar,” she said, and he got the impression she was talking about something other than a drink. “Um, I wouldn’t have expected to see any Villains out and about after what I observed at camp today. Aren’t you hurting?”

  “We push the pain down.” Using a different approach, he asked, “Why aren’t men lined up to give you anything you want?”

  “This deters them, usually. They ask me to dance, and I can’t.” She reached behind her and presented the cane. “Uh, actually, I’m with—”

  “Their loss,” he decided. “If you want to go to a couch, I can chill with you. Another option is this. A party’s going down at my place.”

  “You’re throwing a party but you’re here?”

  “Yes. I’m willing to go back if you’ll be
my guest.”

  Meg smiled. He couldn’t read it—had no clue what she was thinking—but he didn’t care because it was the sexiest thing this night had to offer. “What might I find at your party that I can’t get here, Omar?”

  Privacy, he almost said. In his mind he could see himself trailing a hand through her hair and laying a kiss on her that’d clear away the hesitation pushing them apart.

  Would it take her by surprise? Would she roll with it?

  Again, he saw himself touching her, but this was reality. His platinum chronograph watch shone under the bar lights, and the sparkle seemed to spin as he watched his fingers brush the pattern of a loose curl hanging over her cheek.

  Last night they’d established that he didn’t invite her onto the practice field because he wanted to hit on her. But that was then, this was now. Now he was hitting on her, seducing her, whatever anyone wanted to call it. Because he couldn’t pull himself back.

  “We can ignore your cane. Put it behind you again and forget all about it. We don’t need to dance.”

  “Omar…wait…” Meg shook her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “The Villains, the Greers, nobody needs to know we’re hooking up if you want it like that.”

  “You don’t understand—” Her eyes fixed on something behind him and she waved. A tall guy—Middle Eastern, he’d guess—came out of the background.

  “Omar, this is my boyfriend, Remy. Remy, Omar’s the Villains’ kicker. He told me he’s looking to break records this season. I think he’ll make this city’s sports fanatics proud.”

  “Hey, good to meet you,” the man said easily. “I know some folks who’re deep in Fantasy Football. Your name comes up.”

  Remy curled an arm around Meg’s shoulders, and, like her, allowed an unreadable smile. But the meaning behind his gesture hollered, This is mine. Don’t get too close to what’s mine.

  So Natsuko’s dog wasn’t the only one unafraid to mark his territory.

  “Break records, huh?” Remy said conversationally.

  Omar didn’t trust his casual tone. There was a cagey quality about him and Meg, if he wanted to reflect on it more. Except he now knew her secret—she had a man, and Omar was wasting his time with her.