Hard Luck

by Liv Morris

  Ouch, that stings, but I’m not surprised since Brady’s not so stellar reputation is summed up in one word: manwhore.

  “I get it. He’s been around the bases, so to speak.” No need to sugarcoat the truth.

  “Lots of homeruns, too.” If she only knew it was over two-hundred. “I don’t want my smart and beautiful daughter being another tally on his scoreboard.”

  I have to silently hold back a giggle. Being as much of a baseball nut as I am, my mother nails the double entendres.

  “Well, let’s consider me a new game, and I have not let him score yet,” I say.

  “Really?” She sounds surprised, and I can’t blame her. I am, too. He’s paying one million dollars without a sample or guarantee there will be more. And I thought I was the crazy one. “I am proud of you. You know what I’ve always said. Why pay for the milk when the cow gives it for free.”

  “Well, I’m not a cow, Mom.” And even if he does taste the milk, it will cost him seven figures.

  “When were you going to tell me?” she asks, her voice now ringing with hurt.

  “I was going to call you this afternoon. Promise. Those photos weren’t supposed to happen. I wanted to make sure he was going to stick around.”

  Nothing like an inked contract to guarantee he’s not going anywhere.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing. Remember last time…?” her words trail off.

  “No forgetting Mitchell.” Some relationships just leave a mark—or a shitty hash mark. “But I’m over him.”

  And it’s true. Blocking his number when he texted me during his team’s Chicago road trip means it’s over for me. Now he’s electronically erased from my life, and in this social media crazy time, that’s like saying, “you’re dead to me.”

  “Why can’t you date a nice baseball player, like Matt McDonald?” she asks, and I shake my head.

  “Mom, he’s married with a baby on the way.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize. All the good ones are taken.”

  “Brady’s not bad,” I say, then draw my brows in. Now I’m defending his manwhore ways—what’s up with that?

  “Promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t choose your friends anymore, but I worry.”

  “That’s the last thing you need to do. I’ll be fine, promise.” My mother has aged since my brother was arrested for selling drugs four years ago. It was just pot at the time he was busted, but the harder stuff most likely wasn’t on him.

  “You know I’ll always worry about you. I love you too much not to.”

  And with those words, I decide the little tidbit about moving in with him can wait. One revelation at a time. Maybe I’ll tell her Monday night—our usual catch up on the phone evening—before the week gets out of hand and I’m too exhausted from juggling balls and penises all day. Men are such odd creatures.

  “Love you, Mom. I need to run.”

  Stuart pulls up to the curb of Nordstrom just as I end the call. Perfect timing. He comes around to the side of the car and opens my door.

  “Good luck with your shopping, Ms. Jones,” Stuart shoots me a broad smile as I step out. I’m glad he’s not the stereotypical stuffy chauffeur.

  “I feel like you should call me Vivian today,” I say, giving him a wink.

  “Vivian?” he asks.

  “From Pretty Woman.” I start to walk away. “A rich man made her look classy, too.”

  “Some people are born classy.” I turn back around to find Stuart nodding his head.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You have more class in your pinky than all the others combined.” Ouch at the reminder of all the others, but yay to me for being standout.

  I walk back the couple feet separating us, and in a total Vivian-type move, reach up to lightly kiss him on the cheek.

  “Be cool while I’m gone,” I say, like I’m truly channeling Vivian.

  “Text me when you’re ready to be picked up here and taken to your next appointment.” Stuart hands me his card. Pretty fancy.

  “Got it.” I give him a thumbs up and stash the card in my handbag.

  Now the fun begins. I walk inside Nordstrom and glance around, lost. I was hoping the words “Personal Stylist” would be lit in a flashing neon sign for me to see, but this place isn’t Eamon’s pub.

  I text Heather with a desperate question.

  Where is the personal stylist? Help.

  Two seconds later, Heather replies. Good thing she programmed her number into my phone this morning.

  2nd floor, right, through designer dresses. Ask for Donna.

  Thanks. Lifesaver.

  I am already riding up to the second floor when she replies.

  It’s my job.

  My finger hovers over a smiley emoticon, because sending a heart is definitely out of the question, but I decide texting nothing back is the best option and place my phone back in my bag.

  I step off the escalator and straighten my clothes, truly understanding how Vivian felt when she walked into those snotty boutiques on Rodeo Drive. But this is Nordstrom, a much friendlier place.

  After weaving through racks of Oscar, Valentino, and Dolce, I find the sales associate working in designer dresses.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Donna, the personal stylist. My name is Cali Jones. We had an appointment at ten and I’m running late.”

  “Ms. Jones.” I turn toward the sound of my name. A woman in a stunning black suit with peep toe heels stands behind me. “Donna White.”

  She holds out her jeweled fingers and we shake hands. “Good morning. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Carpeting,” she answers while looking down. “You’re more lovely than the photos I saw of you this morning.”

  I lower my head. “Yeah, those.”

  “It’s my job to get you ready for shots just like that.” She locks elbows with me. “So, let’s get to work.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling much more at ease. I like her already.

  “This is going to be fun. Let’s get you undressed,” she giggles as we enter the fitting rooms. “I love saying that.”

  “Nordstrom has been more torture for me than fun.” She looks at me with a blank stare. “Student loans,” I elaborate, and her mouth forms a small O.

  “Gotcha, but not today. My client, Mr. Luck, has asked for me to remove all the price tags from the items you try on.”

  “Why would you do that?” I ask.

  “He wants to spoil you, darling. Shower you with gifts and have you not think about the consequences. Rich men like to do that for the women they love.”

  I laugh at her remark. Love? As if. He’s in love with the fact that I can get his love machine running again.

  But buying me clothes is sweet of him regardless, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be ungrateful. Even Vivian took all the gifts…well, she took his cock too, but that’s another story.

  Fun to Donna ended up being a complete two-week wardrobe down to new panties and bras. Hours later, I have amassed a wardrobe Beyoncé would envy. Well, that might be a stretch, but at least I feel like the queen with all my new clothes. They even fed me lunch while we shopped.

  “Listen, if you need anything, and I mean anything, call me.” Donna hands me a white business card with her name on it. I add it to my handbag along with Stuart’s. I have “people” now. It’s so odd.

  “Will do,” I say, though I likely won’t need another thing. I wear maroon scrubs every single day of the workweek. It will take me forever to mix and match the hundreds of items she piled onto Brady’s charge.

  I look around the room and wonder how many bags Stuart and I will be carrying home today. Which home is another question too.

  “There’s so much here. I’ll text Brady’s driver and get help.”

  Before I can even reach to grab my phone, Donna interrupts, “Oh, sweetie, we’ll deliver it to your place, or is it his?” She gives her eyebrows a wiggle.

  “His,” I whisper, because I publically declared with a three-
letter word I shack up with him. Donna may be professional, but she’ll talk, and pretty soon, my living arrangements will be in the fucking headlines.

  I sigh.

  “Here’s my favorite dress of the day, along with matching accessories for tonight. Also, some frilly undergarments.” Donna hands me a large bag filled to the top. “Even nightwear,” she adds with a wink.

  I look inside the bag, finding black lace peeking out of some tissue wrappings. Great. I finally own expensive lingerie and have no one to share it with. I’ll be damned if Brady will see it tonight, and try to convince myself this will be the case every night until October when his team is either in or out of the Series, but I doubt even a nun could withstand Brady’s charisma and persuasion—and I’m not a nun, that’s for damn sure.

  Stuart drives me to Maison for a hair and body appointment, though I have yet to learn what “body appointment” means. I should text Heather since she’s the one who set this whole day up, but I’ll live on the edge and find out once I arrive.

  “Ms. Jones,” Jean George, the owner himself, greets me as I walk through his spa’s doors. I can’t believe the attention everyone is paying me. Any other day, I’d be just another young woman who could never afford this place.

  “Welcome to Maison.”

  “Thanks,” I say as he ushers me to a corner of the salon area.

  “You have more than great bones. They’re fabulous. And your blue eyes. No wonder Brady is head over heels.” He sits me down in a beauty chair and turns my head to each side. He smiles at me in the mirror, appearing giddy. I can’t imagine why though.

  “Will you trust me?”

  “The last guy who asked me that broke my heart.” Jean throws his head back and laughs.

  “You’re perfect for our Brady,” he says while wrapping me in a black protective cape.

  “We’ll see,” I add, my tone dripping with sarcasm, and he chuckles.

  I hear a text ping from my phone that’s buried somewhere under my cape. “Excuse me, Jean.”

  I find my handbag, then phone, and there’s a text from Heather.

  Brady will pick you up at your apartment. Crew’s working late setting up your room.

  Instead of texting her back, I push call.

  “Yes,” Heather states, like I’m the biggest pain in her day.

  “Listen, I know you’re doing your job and trying to help Brady with everything, but the personal stuff between Brady and I will not have a go between. He can pick up his damn phone and text me. He has my number. Unless it’s too hard for him,” I end with a punch and a smug smile.

  I glance up in the mirror and Jean is doubled over with laughter. Shit. I can’t pull this kind of crap in public. Oh well. More fodder for the gossip page.

  “Well, look who has a spine.” Heather laughs, but it’s not a cruel one. “I like you, Cali.”

  I couldn’t be more surprised with her statement, unless she asked me to have a sleepover where we did each other’s nails and makeup.

  “I like you, too.” I think. God, this conversation has turned weird as shit.

  “From now on, all communication will be from Brady, unless he’s out of pocket or something. No more playing the middle man for him.” I do like her after all, and think she respects me more now.

  “Perfect,” I answer.

  I hand my phone back to Jean after ending the call. “I need it close by. Brady should be texting or something.”

  “I love you,” Jean says, eyeing me through the mirror’s reflection. “If I weren’t gay, I’d give Brady a run for his money.”

  “Well, he has a ton of it, so it’s good you’re gay.” Jean laughs and shakes his head.

  “I hope he knows what he has in you,” he states in a more sober tone. “You’re the real deal.”

  I have to look away from Jean’s gaze. Brady knows exactly what he has in me—the woman who made a deal for a cool one million dollars.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Brady

  “Mr. Luck, are you okay?” Stuart asks from the front seat of the car. “We’ve been sitting outside Tiffany’s for over ten minutes, and we’re parked in the bus lane.”

  Stuart has no idea why I asked him to drive me here while Cali is at Nordstrom, and I’d rather he find out from me than the stupid media.

  “Just taking a few deep breaths before I pick out an engagement ring for Cali.”

  There’s silence in the car. I was expecting some type of noise, a laugh perhaps, or maybe even Stuart choking upon hearing my words. God knows I almost did saying them.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?” Stuart asks. I shake my head as he eyes me in the rearview mirror.

  “I’m going to pop the question tonight.” Or make it official, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Stuart grins at me. “I didn’t think you had it in you. You sure did pick a winner. Congratulations, Mr. Luck. I hope she says yes.”

  “Remember who you’re talking to, Stuart. She’s a done deal. Put a fork in her, bro.” Though, I’d rather it be my dick. I need to get laid so fucking bad. Maybe once she has a ring on her finger, she’ll cave.

  “A bus is approaching, Mr. Luck. Better jump out or let me circle the block.”

  “Getting hit by a bus might be less painful,” I mutter under my breath as I open the door and land on the sidewalk.

  Once inside Tiffany’s, a man comes striding up to me. His black coal suit and trademark turquoise tie are a dead giveaway. He’s management.

  “Mr. Luck, I’m Darren Smith, the store manager. I spoke with your PA, Heather, this morning,” he declares as he reaches his hand out to me. “What a pleasure to have you in our store today.”

  “Thanks,” I say, after an over-the-top handshake.

  I half expect him to pull out a ball for me to autograph for his kid. I can spot a fan a mile away, and I’d be happy to sign one. It’s all about the fans, after all. They fill up the seats and help pay for the ring I’m about to buy.

  “We have a viewing room ready for you in the back. Maureen, our top associate, will assist you. Heather didn’t mention what you were interested in on the phone. We do have some finely crafted watches for a gentleman, or perhaps a gift for your mother?”

  “Nothing for me or my mother today.”

  “Interesting.”

  The manager leads me to a room in the back of the store. A blond woman stands from her chair and walks toward me. She’s somewhere in her thirties and hot as hell, but in a classy sort of way. She licks her red lips and eyes me as she approaches.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Luck,” she greets, and we shake hands. Her eyes are fixed on mine as her fingers touch every inch of my palm when she pulls away. She should just tell me to unzip her dress for how subtle she’s not being.

  “I’m Maureen,” she says, purring at me like a cat. When women sound like this, I’ve found it’s really their pussy talking, needing to be stroked.

  Forget a little harmless flirting, her actions suggest one thing: she wants to fuck. Wait until she finds out why I’m here. It’ll shock that sexy smile right off her pretty face.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say as she motions for me to take a seat at the table. She sits in a chair across from me and bends over so her tits are the main attraction.

  “What can I help you with today?” She licks her lips again, but this time slower and with the very tip of her tongue. Normally, my dick would be hard as a rock, but nope—nothing’s happening. Damn broken dick.

  “I’m looking for something big.”

  “Yes, to match the man,” the saleswoman says with a definite wink. “Or the woman’s heart?” she adds, pushing her chest out even further.

  Holy fuck. Next thing I know, she’ll get up and start doing a strip tease on the table. Time to shut this shit down.

  “Since you mentioned heart, do you have any heart-shaped diamond engagement rings?”

  “Did you say engagement rings?” Her mouth falls open a
nd her eyes are as round as quarters.

  “Yes, for my girlfriend, hopefully soon-to-be fiancée.” I lean back in my seat and wait.

  “The girl in the paper?” I nod. “Wow, that was fast.”

  “You know what they say about insta-love—it’s instant.” I lean my head to the side like I’m thinking of Cali, and funny thing, I am. It’s those blue eyes of hers.

  “Well, I’m happy for you and her,” she says, straightening up in her seat and wiping the drool off her lips. She takes a deep breath, seeming to regroup. Her smile changes from sexy to salesperson. Thank fuck.

  “Thanks,” I respond. “I am lucky.” To have found the woman my dick likes.

  “So, we have solitaires and our beautiful Halo heart stoned ring is beyond words. More of a diamond is wasted to make the heart shape, so the stone is more precious.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’ll ever get engaged again, so let’s go for the best. Let me see the Halo one.”

  “Would you like to see the coordinating wedding bands, too? For your bride-to-be and yourself?”

  “Just the engagement ring for now,” I say. A wedding band isn’t hitting my finger anytime soon.

  Maureen pivots to a professional sales person and helps me choose the most awesome ring. Like the one I’d buy if this were real and I were head over heels in love with Cali. I figure I can reuse it down the line, after I retire and decide to tie the knot…or is that an asshole move? Maybe I better rethink that.

  Carrying a blue bag with a little blue box, I head back out to the car. Inside the box is a ring worth over six-figures. The hit to my wallet sure made this day seem real. I’m definitely holding on to that receipt.

  Wanting to make sure Heather has the movers on target for Cali’s new room being ready tonight, I have Stuart head back to the apartment. I want her coming through the door happy she made this decision. Hell, she’s been uprooted from her apartment and set down in mine—that kind of a shift can fuck with your mind.

  Next up is a call to my agent. Rod has no idea I just bought an engagement ring and will shoot me in the ass if the media alerts him first. I wouldn’t put it past Maureen to be on the phone with the Chicago Sun-Times right now either.