DIRTY BALLER
By Vesper Vaughn
Copyright 2016 Vesper Vaughn
STAY IN TOUCH
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Contents
STAY IN TOUCH
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
STAY IN TOUCH
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
HAYLEY
The sound of clicking keyboards fills my ears. The air is heavy with the scent of sugary, half-eaten donuts that litter the cluttered desks of my coworkers. The scent combines with a fog of cheap coffee. I pass Jim, the oldest sportswriter in the building, standing at the microwave.
“Please tell me that you’re not microwaving your coffee,” I intone to him as I place my perfectly prepared lunch in the office fridge. I smooth down a curling edge of painter’s tape that I’ve written my name on. It’s the only way to ensure someone doesn’t steal my carefully made sandwich.
Jim laughs, opens the door of the microwave, and lifts out his chipped mug covered in faded footballs.
“Cheers, Hays.”
I stiffen and lower my voice. “Don’t call me that in the office.”
Jim pats me on the shoulder. “Your dad would insist I give you hell. I am, after all, your honorary uncle.”
He wanders across the busy newsroom and disappears behind one of the dozen stacks of sky-high paper towers covering his work station.
“Childs, my office. Now,” barks the voice of my editor.
I stand up a little straighter and walk past Brenda Sparks, my nemesis. She’s been out to get me since my first day here when she handed me a cup of coffee. I thought it was a gesture of friendship, but I’m like ninety-nine percent certain she spit in the cup before handing it to me.
Brenda glares at me from behind her pair of hipster horn rimmed glasses. She says nothing and I return her icy silence. She’s three years my senior in the office, but that doesn’t stop her from thinking I’m somehow her competition.
I walk past my boss and into her office, which is neat as a pin. I look at the New York skyline across the Hudson and feel a familiar shiver of excitement.
“You know that old question? ‘Would you rather be in Jersey looking at New York City or in New York City with a view of Jersey?’” Sandra asks me, shutting the door of her office.
“Yes,” I reply, not certain of where this is going.
“I’d always choose being in Jersey looking at the city over being in the city. I swear to God they tax you for breathing over there.” She sighs and sits down at her desk, resting her worn pair of Converse shoes on her desktop. “How do you feel about London.” There’s no lilt in her voice that makes it seem like a question.
“The city in England?”
She rolls her eyes. “On second thought, maybe I won’t send you if you’re going to be asking me ridiculous questions like that.” She leans forward to grab her steaming mug of coffee. She’s a low-maintenance kind of woman, but she’s definitely not drinking microwave coffee. I smell expensive beans. Probably from the gourmet shop downstairs. “London, England – yes, England. That London. Across the pond.”
I feel a surge of high school excitement. I used to be obsessed with London. I had bedsheets with a map of the tube network on them and a poster of the London Eye hanging on my ceiling. It was the last thing I saw at night when I went to bed.
“I love London. I mean, I think I would love London if I ever got the chance to go.”
Sandra picks up a thick manila folder. “Perfect. Plane ticket’s in there along with a bucketful of research. You can thank your intern for that. What’s his name? Sal? Larry?”
“Andrew,” I point out.
She chuckles merrily. “Not even in the ballpark. I never bother learning intern names. You know why?”
I shake my head.
“Because they’re always gone by the end of summer. There hasn’t been a single one of them I’ve not scared off from journalism entirely.” She takes a sip of her coffee and ruminates on these words. “That means I’m doing my job.”
I stand up before she forces me to chuckle along with her. “Thank you, Sandra.”
She waves her hand. “You’re doing me a favor. The old crew would piss and moan too much about the jet lag. Have a safe flight, by the way. Oh, and eat some fish and chips for me while you’re there, will you? And a pitcher of Pimm’s.”
I lie and tell her I’ll make sure to do that. I can almost hear my sister laughing at me already.
“Prissy Hayley, getting drunk in a bar? Right. Okay.”
I step back into the newsroom and I can feel Brenda’s hateful laser eyes boring through my body.
Jim stands up. “You going to London, I hear?”
The newsroom as a whole grinds to a halt. My cheeks are on fire from all this unwanted attention. I glance quickly at Brenda, who is fuming, and make a mental note to check under my car later to make sure she hasn’t strapped a bomb to the underside.
“Yup!” I say, trying to sound eager but not too eager. I’d hate for Brenda to think I’m bragging. It would only give her yet another reason to put a hit out on my life.
“Congrats! Don’t fall in the Thames!” Jim laughs and the whole room joins in with him. I wonder vaguely if that’s some sort of inside joke but don’t have the confidence or people skills to ask right now.
Instead, I do what I’ve always done. I keep my head down and head back to my desk.
I wait until I’m sure no one is standing over me to open the folder. I see the plane ticket and realize that my flight leaves in five hours. I yelp and grab my purse. As I begin to run toward the exit, I run smack into Brenda.
“Leaving so soon?” she asks me, her voice thick with bitterness.
“Um, yeah,” I reply, trying to walk around her. She blocks me with h
er body.
“This was supposed to be my story. And guess what?”
“What?” I say with absolutely zero ferocity. Brenda scares me.
She crosses her arms. “When you fail at this, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces of the story and run with it.” She moves her body and walks away from me. “Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder.
It’s only as I’m pulling onto the interstate toward my dingy apartment that I realize something crucial.
I don’t know the first thing about British football.
Good thing I’ve got a long flight to get me caught up.
***
“I don’t know what strings Sandra pulled in accounting, but I’m pretty confident this is the nicest hotel in all of London,” I say into my cell phone.
“What floor is it?” my sister, Alison, asks me.
I flick open the long, velvet curtains and peek out the window. I shut them rapidly, feeling a little queasy from the height. “Um, probably really, really close to the top.”
Alison laughs. “Then I’m guessing you’ll be missing out on the London view. Let me guess. Curtains shut tight to keep your fear of heights at bay?”
I exhale, still a little shaky. “I don’t make fun of your phobias, Alison.”
“What kind of older sister would I be if I didn’t take advantage of making fun of you?”
I have no answer. I hold my phone between my ear and my shoulder and unzip my ragged duffel bag, hanging up my only nice bit of clothing before it can get too wrinkled.
“So what are you doing tonight?” Alison asks me.
“The usual. I have a lot of research to get caught up on-“
“Stop.”
I shut the closet door. “Stop what?”
“Stop what you’re doing. You’re going out tonight.”
I laugh. “I am not going out tonight. I’m exhausted. My body thinks it’s like three o’clock in the morning and I have to be up at the crack of –“
“I just Googled your hotel. There’s one of the hottest bars in London right downstairs from where you are. Put on something slutty, whatever that looks like for you anyway – actually, on second thought, just put on something not Amish and go dance your ass off. Get a little tipsy, get your freak on with some guy on the dance floor, and then see where the night takes you.”
I sigh and walk into the bathroom, flicking on the switch. This place even has a claw foot bathtub. I’m practically itching to curl up into it with some good reading and spend the night here. “I’m not you Alison. I can’t do that.”
“You think I don’t know that? I do know that. But even Dad says you need to lighten up and get out more. You’re in London for crying out loud. You might never be back in London. This is your dream city. Be different. Be something other than yourself for just once in your whole entire life, alright?”
I bite my lip and look in the mirror. She’s right. “Okay. Help me pick something out?”
I have to hold the phone away from my ear to keep Alison’s shriek from piercing my eardrum.
After a five-minute video phone call with Alison, I’m wearing a pair of dark wash denim leggings and a silky black tank top. It’s not what Alison would wear, but she said it was more than good enough. I even put on some makeup, which I never do.
Much to Alison’s disappointment, I didn’t pack any heels other than the sensible pumps that match my suit. She approved me going downstairs in my pristine white Converse sneakers saying that the bar would probably be dark and nobody would notice.
Coming from my sister, that’s practically an enthusiastic compliment.
I lean against the mirrored back wall of the elevator door. It smells like some sort of really expensive flower in here. Soft classical music floats through the speakers, and I mash my finger into the button way on the bottom that says NIRVANA. That, apparently, is the name of the bar.
I nervously put my hand up to my hair and pat it. I’ve pulled my long, red hair up into a high, sleek ponytail. I look nicer right now than I have in over a year, when I interviewed for this job. Who would have ever thought that I’d be here? In London? I pinch my forearm as the doors open.
The lights are dim and this seems like some strange bar and club hybrid. It’s pretty packed, though, and there’s only one open seat at the bar. I take it and hold onto my purse for dear life.
I’m here. I made it. But that doesn’t mean I have any idea how to handle myself right now.
CHAPTER TWO
RYAN
“Bruv, I can’t hear you!” my best friend, Devon, yells through the phone.
“Then fucking listen harder, you wanker!” I slam down a shot of tequila and motion to the bartender for another one.
“I really can’t hear you,” he yells back at me.
I cover the mouth of the phone and wink at the bartender. “Hey, beautiful. Hold my tequila for me, will you?”
She rolls her brown eyes at me. I’ve done the impossible: I’ve pissed off the bartender so much she isn’t even pretending to like me anymore, not even for a tip. I scream into the phone. “I have to piss, maybe you can hear me in there!”
I grin at a pair of women with huge tits who turn around and giggle over what I just yelled. I push through the crowd towards the bathroom. It’s empty. “Hey, can you hear me now?”
Devon and the guys – all my former teammates – yell back into the phone. “Come back, bruv!”
I sigh. “You have me on speakerphone?”
Devon laughs. “Yeah. I figured it would take the whole team to convince you. I say fuck football if you can’t play it where you want it, with the people you want.”
I unzip my pants and piss into the urinal, putting the phone on mute while Devon continues getting the team amped. They’re chanting my nickname now.
“Mac! Mac! Mac! Come back!”
I zip up my pants, wash my hands, and take the phone off of mute. “Don’t tempt me. But it’s not like I had a choice with you all being a bad influence on me every weekend.”
I’m grinning, and even though Devon can’t see me, I know he can tell.
“Bruv, you were the one ‘oo was gettin’ us all in trouble.”
I sigh and run my hands through my hair. “Coach was right. Being here there’s way less encouragement to go out and party.”
“Says the guy ‘oo is at a bar right now.”
The bathroom door opens and a businessman stumbles inside, walking into a stall and vomiting.
I lower my voice. “It’s all tight-ass old people here at this hotel. Can’t wait to find a flat and hit some real clubs.”
The phone beeps and it’s just Devon’s voice coming through clearly now. He’s taken me off of speakerphone. “Bruv, try and have some sort of fun. Find some girl with huge tits, alrigh’? Do it for me. Do it for the team.”
“Fuck off, Dev,” I reply good-naturedly. “Alright. Back to the partying.”
I wasn’t lying. This bar is supposed to be great, but it’s all filled with old hotel guests thinking that they can get shitfaced and get away with it while away from home. It’s businessmen looking to have affairs with a few hen party women. It’s sad, really.
I step back into the club and see my place at the bar has been taken by something short, curvy, and redheaded.
“I think you’re in my seat,” I say to the woman, tapping her on the shoulder.
She turns around and I realize my night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, and I realize that her clear, lilting vowels are decidedly American. “I didn’t realize.” She grabs her purse and stands up.
I love American women. Love them. They’re my weak spot, my Achilles heel, my fatal flaw. This one seems shy. In my experience, it’s always the shy ones who end up the feistiest in the bedroom. This looks like a challenge.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask good-naturedly.
She looks confused. “To another seat.”
I
smile at her, and I can tell that my usual charms are working spectacularly, as usual. She bites her lip. “You know you didn’t actually have to get up, right? I’d actually love it if you’d stay awhile.”
Her eyes dart to the tattoos running down my arms. “I really shouldn’t.”
“You must have just gotten here. Did you fly in tonight from the States?” I wave to the bartender for two more tequila shots.
“Yeah, I did. I just wanted to get a drink to make my sister happy.”
“Do you always do what your sister says?”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times. “I just flew in,” she repeats as a non-sequitur.
“You said that already.” I let go of her and hold out my hand. “I’m Ryan. And you are-“
“Hayley,” she says.
I tilt my head to the side, my eyes running down to the tent her full breasts are making out of her shirt. I’d love to run my hands up under the fabric that’s not quite long enough to cover her stomach. “I was going to say that you were the answer to my prayers tonight, but I think Hayley is going to be a much shorter name to call you by.”
She blushes, still clutching her purse. “I should go to bed.”
“Is that an invitation?”
She actually laughs and runs the palm of her hand over her hair. “You know what? A drink would be great.” She perches herself back onto the barstool. The fat businessman sitting to her right is eyeing her.
I flex my muscles and glare at him. I’d love for this guy to try something right now. It’s been at least three days since I had the pleasure of clocking a guy in the face. He looks terrified as he sees my stance and looks away.
“You okay with tequila?” I ask her. I hand her the tiny glass and she takes it, swallowing the contents before I can even say something. “Alright, I guess you are.”
She shakes her head as the alcohol presumably burns her mouth and throat. Her lips are plump and rosy. Just like I can see an opening on the football field, I can see her on her knees later tonight, her mouth all the way open.
My dick hardens and I realize I should change my line of thinking before Hayley looks down at my rapidly tightening jeans.
“I was told to drink something called Pimm’s,” she says loudly, still holding her purse like it’s a life preserver.
Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 1