by Teagan Kade
Amy pours out the champagne and holds hers high. “A pussy party for Sam.”
“A pussy party for Sam,” comes the chant, and all I can do is smile and drink, Vegas slipping further and further from my mind.
*
“Sam?”
I open groggy eyes to find Chance sitting on my bed staring down at me. “Is this a dream?” It would appear there is a frog in my throat.
I sit up a little but holy hell is that a bad idea, my head slumps back to the pillow full of rocks. “Man, I really overdid it last night, didn’t I?”
Chance brushes hair out of my face. “Judging by the redhead passed out on the kitchen floor and the collection of bottles on the bench, not to mention the fact you’re wearing a pair of panties on your head, I would say, yes, you may have overdone it just a smidge.”
I turn my head sideways, everything spinning. “Kill me.”
“Say, what were you celebrating?”
“You don’t want to know,” I mumble into the pillow.
“Girl’s night, huh?”
I can’t say I remember anything after the first three glasses. Damn Amy. “Something like that.”
He pulls the sheet down, a hand sliding between my legs. Yep, that still works. “You know what the best cure for a hangover is?”
“Rest and electrolytes?”
He uses the butt of his palm to rub my clit through my panties—the pair not on my head. I find my legs spreading wider, my hips lifting to meet him.
“We can’t,” I pant. “What about Tina?”
“The redhead?”
“She’ll hear us.”
Chance applies a little more pressure, an electric shock running from my clit all the way up my spine, the hangover forgotten. “Your friend out there wouldn’t hear Armageddon given her state. Besides, you have a door, not that I’m inclined to close it.”
I clue in. “That’s very naughty, Mr. Adams.”
He pulls the crotch of my panties aside and presses a finger into my wetness. “Mr. Adams? I like the ring of that, but a Mr. does need a Mrs., does he not?”
The finger curls and explores inside me, fresh tingling lighting up my sex. “Are you proposing, because I’m liable to say anything at the moment.”
“How about dinner?”
“Your place or mine?” I can barely get the words out, hands clutching at the sheets, my head lolling on the pillow.
“I was thinking of going out. I have some team commitments today—charity events and so on—but tonight I’m all yours. Shall we say the usual pick-up at eight?” He works on my clit, his thumb coaxing it out from its hiding place.
My reply is punctuated with breathy gasps. “Sounds. Like. A. Plan.”
His hand leaves the hot vortex between my legs. For a moment I think he’s going to leave, but it’s simply to remove his shirt, his body slipping below the sheets next to mine.
“Now,” he says, cock hardening against my leg, “how about we wake your friend up?”
*
As far as hangover cures go, Chance was right. I’m so buzzed when he leaves I manage to clean the entire apartment, do my finances, and give Chuckles a much-needed bath—to her great displeasure. I’m not bothered by the girls again. It seems that while they have the required champagne, they don’t have the required consequential cure of a strapping man-god with penis to match.
Your man god.
It seems like such an abstract concept, but I think I have become more to Chance than sex. In fact, I think I might have been more from the start.
Maybe it’s just novelty?
I sincerely hope not. I’ve been burnt one too many times in the past, experiences that haven’t exactly inspired confidence in the opposite sex, but again, I was naïve.
I literally have to drag Tina from my apartment and dump her with Amy, who answers the door looking like she spent the night crawling through a sewer.
I clock-watch all day, preparing for the date before the sun’s even set. I fish out not only the tallest heels I have, but a lipstick-red strapless I’ve had for three years in wait for an occasion like this. I take it off the hanger. “Looks like you’re going to see some action after all.”
Talking to inanimate objects, Sam? What next? A talking candlestick?
I hold the dress against myself looking into the bathroom mirror. “Shut up, you. We’re going out and we’re going all out.”
Chance’s reaction when I open the door says it all. “Holy shit.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“You look hot.”
“Don’t I always?” I tease.
His eyes drink in the dress, following the S-curve of my hips. “I mean, yes, but this… How am I supposed to eat with an erection tipping over the table?”
I come up against him, hands on his chest. “I can take it off if it’s too much of a distraction.”
“I don’t think that’s going to help matters.”
I wink. “Play your cards right and that’s precisely what’s going to happen.”
Stand back, folks. Sam the sex bomb has arrived.
*
Chance cocks his head to the right. “Don’t look now, but Matt and his crew just arrived.”
I look to the table in question, then look a little harder. “Is that Matt Damon?”
Chance nods. “Sure is, plus half of the Clippers in the function room back there, two big directors by the window, the guy who wrote The Hangover by the bar… It’s a bit like a who’s who of celebrities whenever a hot restaurant like this opens up.”
Admittedly, I was worried about the paparazzi outside, but Chance managed to sneak us through the back. I imagine places that cater to A-listers have a variety of measures in place for such anonymity.
Chance places his hand over mine, sensing my nerves. “Relax. You belong here. I mean, shit, you’re the hottest girl here.”
I beg to differ, but I take the compliment with a smile. “We didn’t have to come to a place like this, you know.”
Chance laughs, squeezing my hand. “We can’t eat po’ boys and hot dogs every date, can we? Besides, I want to show you off.”
“You do?”
“Hell yes. You don’t think every guy in here got a boner the second you walked through the door? I love that.”
I’m confused. “You like thinking about other guys’ boners?”
More laughter. “No, I like the power—the power to say ‘this girl is mine, all mine.’”
“You sound like a kid getting protective over his favorite toy.”
He lets my hand go and leans back in his chair. “I do like to play.”
“So I’m learning.”
We order. True to the surrounds, the food is rather different to what I’ve come to expect. That doesn’t make it any less delicious, just… a change.
By the end of the meal I’m comfortably full—a miracle given the serving sizes.
The maître d’, clearly a big Chance fan, chats to us for a moment. I’m not sure he’s ever going to let Chance’s hand go. Even Mr. Damon waves from his table, Chance tossing him an invisible football in return, much to the amusement of Damon’s entourage.
It’s a little cooler out tonight. Chance parked his car a street or two away, but it’s so nice I’m happy to walk.
The streets are quiet, only the odd bark or siren hinting at life beyond.
Chance takes my arm. “I could take you right here, you know, press you up against a wall.”
“What’s wrong with your bed?”
He looks down at me. “You want another sleepover?”
My heart sinks until his smile tells me he’s kidding. “Sounds good to me.”
I hear something clank behind us. I turn and notice two men following us maybe twenty, thirty feet away.
They could almost be brothers. They’re wearing dark, shiny suits that blend into the drab streets, but are far from the well-cut wares of the dining crowd we’ve just come from.
A te
rrible foreboding twists my gut. I squeeze Chance’s arm. “Let’s go down here,” nodding at the next street to our right. He looks behind us and sees the two men, pulling me to the right as he does.
“I think they’re following us,” I say, my heart pounding. Something about them spells Vegas and criminal.
We both look back again, but they’re gone.
I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when the two men step onto the street ahead of us. One of them, slightly taller with a buzz-cut and eyes so dark they’re almost black, is holding something by his leg. It has to be a gun.
I seize up, squeezing Chance’s arm with all I have.
He sees it too and recognizes the imminent danger.
“Run,” he whispers, and that’s it. We turn together and run for the end of the street, Chance pulling me along. I lose one of my heels and then the other not far behind it, the gravel is sharp under my bare feet as we make the corner and start up another street.
“This way,” calls Chance, pulling us into a side alley.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
Chance brings us to a stop, holding a finger to his lips. “Keep quiet.”
There’s a sound at the end of the alley.
“Here.” Chance presses me down behind a dumpster, crouching in front of me and peering past it into the alleyway.
My heart is hammering its way out of my body. I’m struggling to breathe, to remain calm. Deep down I knew they would find me eventually, but not now. God, please, not now.
Two male voices sound out clearly, growing in volume. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but given the way Chance turns and places his finger against his lips again, they have to be close.
I pull my knees to my chest and close my eyes. I count to myself, counting away the seconds and praying we’re not found.
It’s a lifetime before Chance speaks again. “Let’s go, quietly.”
He brings me to my feet and we head out into the main street, keeping to the shadows and managing to flag down a taxi.
The relief when we’re finally moving is palpable. I take a deep breath, speaking to Chance. “What about your car?”
“All that and you’re worried about my car? I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”
I start scratching the top of my hand. “I didn’t imagine that, did I? Those men were following us.”
Chance nods, taking out his phone and showing me a photo. It’s dark, blurry, but you can make out the builds of the two men. It’s hard to tell what it is the taller one is holding, but I’m still sure it was a gun.
A gun with a bullet meant for you.
The thought fills me with a cold dread. “What do we do?”
“Where to?” the driver calls.
I realize we simply told him to ‘drive’ when we got in.
Chance holds my gaze. “The nearest police station.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHANCE
I can’t contain my anger any longer. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t do anything?”
The detective sighs, clearly used to delivering this kind of news. “Mr. Adams, I understand you’re a celebrity. Heck, I’m a big Cats fan, but if these men did not verbally or physically threaten you, there’s not much I can do.”
I thrust my phone into the detective’s face. “What about this? I mean for fuck’s sake one of them is holding a gun.”
The detective doesn’t look at the screen, having already scrutinized the picture earlier. “No offence, Mr. Adams, but the photo’s dark and blurry. The guy could be holding a banana for all we know.”
This little joke does not go over well. I slam my hand down on the desk. “I know what I saw!”
The detective stands. “I’m going to have to ask you calm down.”
Sam squeezes my hand, my temper dissipating at her touch. I take a seat and stare at the picture. He’s right. It could be anything that creep’s holding. “What do you suggest we do then?”
The detective leans over his desk and addresses Sam. “Is there somewhere else you can stay, temporarily? I’m not saying you were being followed, but given your story it’s not implausible either. Do you have a family member, a friend who could put you up somewhere safe?”
I immediately assume she can stay with me, but is that really wise? If they could find her that easily, they can sure as hell find where I live. No, she needs somewhere they wouldn’t think to look. That’s when the idea strikes me. It’s not pretty, but it might do for now.
Sam’s looking down at the table. I can see the surface of the coffee she’s holding rippling. “No, I mean…” She doesn’t even have the energy to finish the sentence. We have been here half the night.
“She’ll be fine,” I tell the detective. “Come on, Sam. Let’s go.”
She grips my arm tight. “I don’t feel safe, Chance.”
I pull a little closer to her. “It’s okay. I have a plan and I’m going to protect you no matter what. Do you trust me?” It’s a lot to ask, a lot of responsibility on my shoulders, but I’ve shouldered that kind of burden before. I had a whole squad of men to protect on tour. Every one of them came home because we watched each other’s backs. That’s exactly what I’m going to do here.
Maybe the detective can read my mind. “Do you own any weapons, Mr. Adams?”
“If you’re asking if I own any licensed weapons, the answer is no.”
“And unofficially?”
I smile. “The answer is still no.”
I don’t want to tell him about the stash of guns I managed to smuggle out from the Army, nor the handgun I keep in the Mustang’s glovebox. Given this, I might be better served relocating it to a leg holster.
The detective stands, shakes my hand. “I’ll keep you informed of any developments, Mr. Adams, but like I said…”
“…Unless she is physically or verbally threatened… I know, I know,” I finish. “Don’t worry. If they do, you’ll be the first to know.”
Whether he misses the sarcasm of not is beside the point. He smiles at Sam as I take her around the shoulders and lead her out to a limo service I chose not only for its discretion, but their security. A guy who could double for a Secret Service agent ushers us inside.
Sam takes my hand as soon as the door closes. “I’m so sorry I got you involved in all this.”
“Sorry? I’m sorry I didn’t take this more seriously.”
“You said you had a plan?” It’s the first time I’ve heard hope in her voice in almost twelve hours.
“Like I said, trust me.”
*
I would expect anyone to be disgruntled being dragged out of bed on a Sunday morning, but I don’t imagine Morgan had to walk far from his secret abode to meet us up in the players’ parking lot.
He looks around at the deserted stretch of asphalt. “I’m all for fresh air, son, but this is the last place you’re going to find it around here. Still, you rang, so here I am. What’s going on?”
I look over at Sam waiting by the fence before letting Morgan know what went down last night. He takes it in and waits a moment before responding. “I have some friends on the Force who owe me a favor or two. I’ll give them a call, see what I can drum up on your new fans.”
I forward him the photo I took last night. “That would be great, but I’m more concerned about Sam’s safety, which is why I’m asking you to let her stay on site until this is sorted out.”
Morgan seems confused. “On site? I know I stay here, but this isn’t a hotel, Chance.”
I point to old team trailer collecting dust in the corner of the carpark. “What about that?”
Morgan follows my eyes. “That? Well, I suppose, but why?”
“You had the security system at the stadium overhauled last year, didn’t you?”
“Paid for half of it out of my own pocket.”
I turn and nod to the guard box at the front of the carpark. “You’ve got an armed guard there twenty four hours a d
ay, another two on patrol around the grounds.”
Morgan starts to get it. “I could put another on, really lock this place down.”
“Only you and I can know about this.”
Morgan mulls it over. “The security guys will have to know, but they’re trustworthy. I’ll keep information low key, tell them there’s a guest staying on grounds from overseas or something. You sure about this?”
“I want her to be safe, and she won’t be safe with me. All of LA knows where to find me up in the Hills. She’d be a sitting duck up there.”
“You could bait them in, handle it. I know some ex-SEALS who—”
I put my hand up to stop him. “Too dangerous, but I am going to put security up at my place as well, just in case.”
“And what about Sam’s apartment?”
“I’ll have one of the team PAs get her stuff. Her rent’s paid up until the end of the year, but her neighbors might start to get suspicious. She’s become quite close with a couple of them.”
Morgan thinks on it. “Do they know you?”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Who doesn’t know me?”
“So go over there and get your shirt off, sell them a spiel.”
“I will.”
The conversation stops, both of us turning at the same time to watch Sam.
“I bet you wish you never hired her in the first place.”
Morgan laughs. “Son, I’m happy I hired her. I like to help people, and your girl? She is your girl, isn’t she?”
I nod.
“Your girl needs help. I’ve got resources. You’ve got half a brain. What could possibly go wrong?”
What indeed.
A dour expression comes over Morgan at these words. “I wasn’t going to tell you this yet, but there’s been some news about the private investigator.”
I tighten from my chest to core. “What happened?”
We’re miles away from Sam, but Morgan lowers his voice all the same. “There’s no easy way to put this, so I’ll just come out with it. He’s dead. A friend who works at one of the Vegas papers forwarded me the news story.”
“Dead?” I can’t believe it.
Morgan chews on the corner of his lip. “Poor son of a bitch. They found him in that shithole of a desert outside the city riddled with bullets. I mean, yes, the guy was a private investigator, but it’s too much of a coincidence to blame it on anything else.”