by Sosie Frost
The women turned to banshees, shrieking in terror like the cars crashed and careened over the bridge and into the water below. My headlights and windshield shattered, but the van got it worse, twisting into the next two lanes.
Fuck. We blocked the entire highway.
The traffic stopped behind us, and I struggled to stuff my cock in my pants before the frantic van driver launched from her seat and dropped to the road in absolute hysterics.
My girls burst from the car too, scampering over each other in a rush to get away from the crash.
Halter-Top screamed. “Run! It’ll blow up like in the movies!”
At least she had a killer rack, even if she didn’t have any fucking common sense.
I kicked open my door and ran a hand over my bloodied nose. I didn’t care that I probably broke it. My car was completely totaled.
A camera flashed.
I grunted, turning to face a slew of onlookers who also rushed from their cars the instant someone recognized me and screamed my name. Another camera flashed, this time belonging to the three women I had escorted. My dates categorized their injuries and the damage to the car in detailed selfies.
Those pictured would be uploaded to the internet in minutes. Not good. I was in enough hashtags at the moment.
Flashing red and blue lights lit the distance, speeding to the accident. The arrival of the police officially ruined my night. The cop jogged from his car and surveyed the scene. He pulled a flashlight and demanded licenses. Then his light flashed over my face.
“Hey! You’re Jack Carson!” The cop grinned. It was probably the greatest first-responder’s call in his life. “I can’t believe it! Name’s Officer Ryan. You okay, man? What happened?”
I wished my nose would stop bleeding. “Just had an accident—”
“Can’t be any worse than that championship game, am I right?”
I forced a laugh. The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of how bad this would be for me.
Coach Thompson would flip his shit. My agent would be tossing Xanax again.
And Leah?
Holy shit. Unless I wound up in a full-body cast, I had no way to explain this night to her.
Leah was going to have my balls.
If she didn’t kill me instead.
Leah
“What did you do this time?”
I wanted to slam the door the conference room. I thought better of it as it’d look just as bad as the headlines this morning. Instead I imagined the click of the latch as a thunderous crash.
Jack Carson flashed me a devil-may-care-and-nearly-collected-his-sorry-ass grin. Those dimples charmed, the fuck-me blue eyes brightened, and every muscle his body flexed as he stretched his long arms.
He rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his chin. Jack was the type of man who had a perpetual scruff, like he rolled out of bed, smoothed his collar-length blonde hair, and greeted the day with a middle finger and morning wood that’d make an honest, hard-working girl blush.
And I was the one who made sunshine out of moonshine and pixies out of the disgraced starlets sneaking from his bedroom.
Not today.
Oh, not today.
I was in no mood for Jack “Play-Maker” Carson. I didn’t give a damn what prestige followed his name. His athleticism might have astounded coaches, players, and analysts, but Jack had only one nickname with me.
Trouble-Maker.
At least, that’s the only thing I could call him in polite company without losing my job. He deserved many more names—starting with bone-head and working up to the insults my father yelled watching his championship game.
“Mornin’, Kiss.” He gave me a victorious grin that probably melted the panties off the girls from last night. If they had been wearing panties. Knowing Jack, that was unlikely. “Looking good today.”
“Don’t start,” I warned.
“What?”
“Don’t you start with me.”
He surrendered and held up his hands. His arm was bruised, but not as bad as his face. Did he break his nose last night? I considered throwing the newspaper at him, but a calming breath worked wonders to deal with his crises in the past.
I set the article on the table, neatly folded next to my laptop, cell phone, and untouched mocha latte. I usually needed the coffee, but anything I drank this morning would have spit up in a panic. I ordered one anyway, just to give the appearance that today was like any other scandal. It wasn’t, but I had my own reputation to maintain.
Three hours of sleep left me cranky, but that was fine. I could be professional during the interviews and press conferences. Cordial. I’d handle Jack Carson’s latest catastrophe with the grace expected of T&R Publicists LLC. He hired us to buff out the blemishes in his reputation. Sometimes we needed a heavy rag. Today, we…needed a sledgehammer.
This problem wasn’t like Jack’s other situations. It was worse. Much worse. The league scheduled a call for eight AM, and the email we received from the president wasn’t friendly.
I’d rather deal with prosecutors and jilted lovers than Frank Bennett, president of the American League. Not only was he a hard-ass with the teams, he had a hard-on to destroy Jack’s career.
Which meant he’d destroy my career.
And that was quite unacceptable.
Jack took the newspaper and glanced over the headline. Playboy Quarterback Blitzed In Car Crash. The picture was graphic, a candid photo of Jack with blood smeared over his face and dripping onto his shirt. I ignored the three women in the background of the picture—for now. We had enough work to do.
I didn’t wait for my boss to arrive. For nearly a year, Jolene had trusted me to tame the untamable, if only because she had too much of a crush on Jack to take the lead on his case. Not a problem for me. Jack wasn’t my type. I kept myself out of trouble.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked.
Jack shrugged, those broad shoulders impossibly large. “Anything you want me to say, Kiss. Isn’t that your job?”
“Don’t call me Kiss.”
“I thought you liked that nickname.”
“I don’t.”
“It suited you.”
How did he annoy me after only two seconds of conversation? The damn nickname followed me. After the past Christmas party, I never wore the shimmering gown again, not after Jack pronounced me his little Hershey’s Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up in silver silk. The name was funny after two glasses of wine, but a respectable girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.
“Don’t call me Kiss,” I said. “I’ve told you before.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Many times.”
Jack tested my patience with a dangerous smile. “Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can’t blame a man for becoming infatuated.”
Oh, please. “So…you didn’t get any action last night, and now you’re laying it all on me?”
“You’ll know when I lay on you.”
That wasn’t ever going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star quarterback’s car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new. Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for three hours on the busiest bridge out of the city.
“Seriously, Jack,” I said. “What the hell happened?”
His expression hardened, as solemn as I could get him. “I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that’s what happened.”
I ignored the dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one. Jack’s agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating bullets the size of footballs to make it to the office before league president Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.
“Forget about the car,” I said.
Jack’s dazzling smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humi
liate, not the only publicist willing to take his case.
“Forget the car?” He acted like that was the scandal. “It was a classic. 302 V8 engine. Four speed manual transmission—”
I already learned football for this job; I wasn’t taking a literal crash course in cars too. “Jack, the car doesn’t matter. You had three women with you and the van driver had just dropped her children off. You are so lucky you didn’t slam into a family with your…your…”
“My what?”
“Your…whore-mobile!”
“My whore-mobile?”
I waved a hand. “What would you call it?”
He shrugged. “My totaled, 1968 goddamned Camaro! Whores not included.”
“Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t. “What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?”
He smirked. “We were just taking a drive.”
“A drive?”
“I was showing them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Might not kill you to try it once in a while.”
His fun wasn’t my definition of a good time. “Jack, that fun almost killed you.”
“Only makes me stronger, Kiss.”
“Only makes you look like more of a playboy.”
Jack’s words didn’t have a shred of decency or humility. “We were just out for a drive.”
I scrolled to a picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my laptop so he could see the screen.
“Why was your fly down?”
Jack tilted his head as he surveyed the photograph. “Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear boxers.”
“You think?”
“I almost gave a free show.” He took too much pride in the picture. “Believe me, this could have been a lot worse.”
He was delusional. “How?”
“Seeing as I was nearly castrated, be glad we’re talking in your lovely office and not the hospital.” He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his career inconvenienced him. “I give a lot to charity already. The last thing anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my dick.”
“Too much information.”
“Believe me, there’s enough to spare.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You might, one day,” he said. “Never know, Kiss.”
“Neutering you might actually settle your ass down.”
“I’m never settling down.”
“What a surprise.”
Jack crossed his arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-shirt as it stretched against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to never go out without a suit. His ink—the raging calligraphy and lettering, words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past—didn’t look like the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.
Me included.
“You realize how bad this looks?” I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my patience. “The restaurant you left was trashed. The waitresses humiliated. There’s pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a different woman on your lap all night—”
Jack didn’t apologize for any of it. “I’m not allowed to have a good time?”
“Your definition of a good time would entertain three men.”
His jaw set. “Sorry my nights aren’t a half a glass of wine, a thousand piece puzzle, and Netflix—”
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Kiss, you don’t seem the party type.”
“That’s a compliment coming from you.”
I was not explaining myself to Blowjob McCloseCall. For the past year as lead on his case, I’d tried my hardest to foster a professional relationship with the least professional man in the entire American League. No way I’d let that arrogant manwhore get under my skin.
Or my clothes.
No matter how much he tried.
Jack laughed. “You need someone to take you out…and then take you home.”
“Excuse me. We’re talking about your sex scandal first.”
“Gotta have sex for a scandal.”
“Oh, good. I’ll just put in the press release you were taking those three floozies to church.”
He rapped a hand on the table. “They weren’t floozies.”
“What were their names?”
His cocksure smile faded. He gnawed a lip, but I stopped him before he furrowed his brow.
“You’re unbelievable, Jack.”
“One was…Sophie?” He shrugged. “Then there was Halter-Top…and…uh, Blondie.”
“Great.” I scrolled my email again. “That makes my job easier. Anonymous sex. Fantastic.”
“Technically, it was supposed to be an anonymous foursome.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “What might have been...”
“I hope you aren’t this insufferable around your teammates.”
“Kiss, you’re getting off easy. With them, I’m much worse.”
The door opened. I stood, welcoming my boss as she escorted Jack’s agent inside. Jolene blushed the instant she greeted Jack, though she’d never have any luck with the quarterback.
Then again, he humped anyone who crossed his path. God only knew who Jack Carson’s next target would be. I pitied that future girl with her night of meaningless, animalistic sex in the arms of an athletic, masculine god who wanted nothing more than a couple hours of utter passion and no regrets.
At least…I thought I pitied the girl.
Maybe.
Jolene sat at my side, unable to look at her client. Her crush on Jack was so awkward she let me take the lead on the case even though I was still her assistant. The hotshot quarterback was a thorn in our side, but if I could keep him out of trouble, I’d get a well-deserved promotion. I wasn’t stopping until I got the partnership in Jolene’s company and became the best publicist in the city.
“Finn.” Jack nodded to his agent. “How you holding up?”
Finn wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and juggled a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. “Just got off the phone with Coach Thompson.”
Jolene and I braced for the worst. Finn pulled his phone from his pocket. His hand left sweat prints on both the cell and mahogany table. I offered him a glass of water. He declined, sipping the Pepto instead.
“Let me guess.” Jack wasn’t intimidated. Did anything ever bother him? “He’s disappointed.” He held up a hand and started counting on his fingers. “He’s panicking that I’m hurt. He’s demanding that I stay out of the spotlight. Wants me to drop the lifestyle. He’s pissed about the women, about the wreck, about the late night. He won’t say a damn thing about the teammates who actually invited me out. The blame rests solely on me.”
Finn nodded. “You left out most of the profanity.”
He gestured to me. “The ladies have delicate sensibilities.”
I declined to respond to the asshole.
It was only eight AM and already Finn loosened his tie. “Jack, you are the leader of the Rivets. On the field and off.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
“That’s your responsibility, Jack.”
“Last year, I broke two single season records and tied for another three. That’s where my leadership lies. My nightlife doesn’t matter, only if I can get the team to the championship. And I did.”
“And you lost.”
Finn said what we all thought, but it was nothing Jack wanted to hear. The chair toppled as he stood. He loomed over us with a dark scowl that made the tattoos on his arms darken in the artificial light of the conference room.
I knew he didn’t belong trapped indoors like this. A man like Jack needed to vent his frustration on the field, in the gym, or in the bed of a beautiful woman.
Or three of them, apparently.
>
It was easier to judge the manwhore when I wasn’t imagining what he’d do to the lucky woman.
Jack extended his arms, tightening his muscles. Broad. Powerful. “I’m paying all of you a shit ton of money to represent me. So fucking represent me. You want to pretend I’m some beacon of moral responsibility, fucking tell people I’m a damn saint. Earn your salaries like I do every goddamned Sunday. Until then, I’m out of here.”
“Jack…” I called to him before he reached the door. The phone rang as he grabbed the knob. “The League is calling. You have to talk to President Bennett.”
“Son of a—”
Jolene answered the call and pressed her fingers to her lips. She plastered on a twenty dollar smile and greeted the president as if they were old buddies instead of the monthly target of Frank Bennett’s rage against Jack.
“Frank…how are you?” Jolene immediately flinched against a hail of profanity from both the phone and Jack slamming into his seat. “We’ve been waiting for your call. I have you on speaker with Finn Smith, Mr. Carson’s agent, and my assistant, Leah Williams.”
“I remember.”
Frank didn’t mince words. He also didn’t greet us because he had no reason to say hello. We had hardly hung up the phone since the last conversation. This scandal would result in the same meeting as before. Just like the last call. And the call before that. And the meeting before that…
Every conversation had the same concerns: booze, women, and bad decisions.
It was easier to represent players who were actually in trouble with the law. At least the public could believe they were legitimately remorseful when they got caught with the cookie jar. Jack had his hand up too many skirts to look like anything but an unrepentant womanizer.
“Carson there?” Frank’s voice bit over his name.
Jolene pretended not to notice, though she raised her eyebrow at me. “Yes, he is, sir.”
“Hungover?”
Jack snorted. “I wasn’t drinking last night.”
Frank laughed, cold. “Well, what restraint, Carson. Should we hold a parade in your honor?”
This wouldn’t be a pleasant call. Frank Bennett wasn’t intimidated by Jack’s abilities or successes. The new league president didn’t care about ratings. It was our luck that he was committed to bringing professionalism back to the league after countless problems with drugs, domestic abuse, and allegations of interleague cheating.