Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 3: Marcus

by Alexis Adaire

  “I need you to shoot more. A lot more. Every chance you get.”

  This is a strange request, considering he’s spent the last two years trying to get me to shoot less and pass the ball more.

  “You’ve hit all five of the shots you’ve taken so far. Just between you and me, Demarius isn’t likely to come out of his slump today—he’s only hit two of nine so far.”

  I nod, but that’s not enough for Coach Madden.

  “I’m serious about this. We need Selfish Marcus back to have any hope at all. Otherwise, we’re fucked and our summer vacations start tomorrow.”

  Just before the game starts again, I tell our point guard, Chris Williams, “I’ll bring us back. Just give me the ball.” He starts to question me, then looks at Coach, who nods. “I got this, Chris. Trust me.” Then I find Demarius and tell him, “I’m feeling it tonight, D. If you’re not a hundred percent sure, pass it my way.”

  I think he’s relieved to hear it. He’s been shouldering the scoring load since I started passing more, and his current shooting slump has been frustrating.

  Now it’s up to me.

  We get the ball to open the second half and Chris hits me with a bounce pass just behind the three-point line and I drain it. After a Houston miss, I quickly drill a second three. I can feel the blood pulsing in my veins.

  I got this.

  Andre blocks a layup attempt by Gerald Markins and we move downcourt. Two passes later, Demarius finds me coming off a screen and feeds me perfectly and I sink a perfect high-arching three-pointer, my third already in the half. Houston’s coach calls an immediate time out to talk to his team. In less than two minutes, I’ve scored nine points and we’ve managed to cut the lead to twenty. The crowd is quieted by the sudden outburst.

  From that point on, the Rockets buckle down like the veteran playoff team they are, playing aggressive defense and contesting every shot. It makes no difference, though, because I’m absolutely on fire and I’m getting that old sensation of the action slowing down around me, something I haven’t felt in weeks. I can see every fucking shot I take going through the hoop before it even leaves my hands. By the time the third quarter ends, we’ve cut the lead to thirteen points.

  Houston keeps the pressure on, but I’m more than up to the task. My teammates keep feeding me the ball and I take some insanely difficult shots, but never miss. I’ve had some great games in my life, but never anything like this.

  The fourth quarter is more of the same as I continue shooting lights-out. At the six-minute TV timeout, we’ve cut the lead to seven points. One of the assistant coaches pats me on the back and says, “You got forty-one points, MJ.” Whoa, I hadn’t been keeping track.

  The last six minutes are a battle, but my Lakers keep eating away at the lead. Then it happens, the play that will be in my highlight videos for the rest of my career. We’re down by three points and have the ball with forty seconds left, but Houston has every option covered. Markins is all over me at the three-point line, so I go around a screen and step back, a good six or seven feet behind the arc. Then I let fly.

  I only watch the ball halfway. I’ve spent so many hours of my life playing this game that I know immediately this shot is going in. Without waiting to see the results, I turn and run back downcourt to prepare to play defense. As I do, I see a teenager in a Lakers jersey jump up from his front row seat. I don’t know who that kid is, but as I run past him I slap his outstretched hand—just as the ball drops through the net to tie the game. I know immediately that high-five is going to be posted to a hundred-thousand Instagram accounts by midnight.

  Houston calls time out to plot their strategy with twenty-one seconds remaining. As I walk to the sidelines I see that the entire crowd is standing. I happen to spot Russell sitting with his dad and give him a wink.

  I got this.

  As we take the court again after the time out, Markins finds me and says quietly, “Now’s the time when real men step up.”

  Whatever, dude.

  The Lakers get the ball to Markins, who squeezes through a pick that takes me out of the play, so Chris switches over to cover him. I watch helplessly as, with the clock ticking down, Markins makes a filthy crossover move and blows right past Chris, then posterizes seven-foot-one Andre by dunking over him. It’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen and part of me is in awe. Worse yet, Andre fouls him trying for the block and Markins will get a bonus free throw.

  You can hear a pin drop in the Toyota Center as Markins steps to the line, dribbles twice, and takes a breath. Then the crowd screams as he calmly sinks the free throw to give Houston a three-point lead with twelve seconds to go.

  Now it’s Coach Madden who calls a timeout to draw up a final play. When he’s done, I give my teammates a fierce glare and say, “Let’s do this!”

  Coach Madden’s play almost works, but Houston’s experienced defense reads it perfectly and I’m double-teamed as I get the ball with eight seconds left. I see Andre open down under the basket, but we need three points to tie. Then I spot Demarius in the corner and fire the ball in his direction. He goes up just as a defender reaches him with arms outstretched, but D gets off a high-arching shot that seems to hang in the air for an eternity before finally settling softly into the bottom of the net just as the final buzzer sounds.

  I laugh out loud for my guy. What a time to end a shooting slump—with a do-or-die three-pointer at the buzzer to tie a playoff game. We’re all crowded around Demarius in celebration when I hear a ref announce that they need to review the shot on instant replay. The Rockets are protesting that Demarius had a toe on the three-point line, which would make his shot worth only two points.

  The scene is tense as the three refs gather at the scorer’s table to verify the shot. The entire arena is on its feet as the players mill about, waiting for a ruling. Someone nudges my arm and I turn to see Gerald Markins.

  “Dude,” I tell him, “that move you put on Chris was nasty.”

  “Thanks, man. This was fun tonight. You were filthy. Sixty, man—that’s some badass shit.”

  “Huh?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  When Markins points to the secondary scoreboard that tracks player stats, I see my point total and realize what an amazing game I just played. Sixty points. In a playoff game. It takes a minute for it to sink in. And we still have overtime to play.

  Then I hear the ref’s whistle and look up to see him signaling that Demarius indeed had a toe on the line and the shot was a two-pointer, giving the Rockets a one-point win that sends them on to round two. It also means the Lakers lose the series and just like that, our season is officially over. Coach Madden protests angrily, but the call has been made and arguing is moot.

  My teammates and I are stunned and dejected, but it’s by far the most exciting game I’ve ever been a part of. We stand there to gather our thoughts as the Rockets celebrate all around us, their adoring fans screaming in joy. Then we start to make our way to the tunnel leading to the locker room.

  I’m pulled away by the ESPN sideline reporter for a quick TV interview. Seth Connors sticks a mic in my face and says, “Marcus, you may not have gotten the result you wanted tonight, but the Lakers put up a hell of a fight. How do you feel right now?”

  “I’m disappointed,” I say. “Who wouldn’t be? But we’ll be back next year. The Lakers aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Your sixty points tonight is third in NBA playoff history, behind only Elgin Baylor and, of course, Michael Jordan. You only missed three of the twenty-six shots you took. How can you top that?”

  I know exactly what to say. “Easy: My teammates and I are gonna win it all next year. I guarantee it.”

  Despite me being on the losing team, that little quote gets more air time over the next couple of days than anything Gerald Markins says in his interviews.

  The post-game locker room is a strange scene. We lost, but everyone knows we played our asses off the last two games and it should set us up well for next season. U
nderneath the sadness, there’s a definite sense of optimism for what’s to come.

  Nonetheless, we’re done for this year.

  Our flight back to Los Angeles isn’t until tomorrow morning, so after the game, Andre and Chris decide to hit a local club called V-Land and talk some of us into going. We’re all still disappointed by the loss, but our strong showing against a team we supposedly had no chance of beating is something worth celebrating. Demarius says he’s in, so I decide to tag along. I don’t normally go clubbing with my fellow Lakers, but this is a special occasion.

  The rain in Houston has been coming and going all day, but there’s a break as we enter the club. V-Land is the hottest thing in H-Town these days, and the place is hopping. A few of the Rockets are there as well, and I recognize a bunch of other celebrities, too. Actors, rappers, other jocks—they’re all represented. There’s always so much fine pussy here that the NBA players say the “V” in V- Land stands for “vagina.” Tonight is no different.

  I’ve only had two drinks when I spot Lexi Snow at a private table with a few others. She sees me at the same time and gestures me over, a big sexy smile on her face. Chris and I join her party and have a couple of drinks. Before long, Chris has two of the Houston Texans football team’s cheerleaders holding onto him and Lexi and I have continued our little flirtation.

  Lexi’s wearing a gray Kanye hoodie over a loose white silk tank top. Every time she leans in to say something in my ear over the loud music, I get a glimpse down her shirt. Since she’s not wearing a bra, those glimpses are revealing. Eventually, my eyes don’t lift back up quickly enough and Lexi catches me in the act. She stares into my eyes for a second, then leans forward, slipping a finger into the front of her tank top and pulling it away from her chest to give me a birds-eye view of her firm, round tits. The beautiful T-shirt-covered tits on the poster in my dorm just six years ago are the same ones I’m now being allowed to gawk at. I get a clear view of the nipples that had only been hinted at on my poster.

  Lexi sits back up and smiles. The entire interaction took only seconds, but it’s enough to make me want to see more, to touch that tight body, to see if Lexi Snow is as good in bed as I always imagined her to be. When she wraps a hand behind my neck and pulls me in for a quick kiss, I don’t resist. Immediately afterward, she grabs my hand and motions for me to follow.

  She slips her hood over her head and we make our way through the crowd. It seems odd that people recognize me as we pass, but the much-more-famous Lexi Snow slinks by without attracting attention. It occurs to me that it’s a skill she’s developed, but with my height, I doubt such a skill would do me any good.

  Lexi takes me into the hallway that leads to the restrooms. Once there, she immediately pins me hard against the wall, quite a feat considering she’s more than a foot shorter and at least a hundred pounds lighter.

  “Kiss me, Marcus,” she says with a sense of urgency. Without thinking, I do just that, bending forward to lock my lips against hers. She’s a great, aggressive kisser, and our tongues play intensely as she nestles her body against mine. I’m aware that people are passing us going both ways, staring at the tall black guy and the mystery white woman who’s wrapped up in his arms.

  I feel Lexi begin to grind her body into mine, forcing my legs to part as she works her way between them. Before long her belly is pressing into my crotch and I realize her movement is giving me an erection. Lexi stops long enough to look down at the mischief she’s causing, then kisses me again and resumes her slow gyrations. I reach down to slide a hand under her hoodie, feeling her breast and rubbing her hard nipple.

  As I feel the blood rushing into my cock, which stiffens against her, I suddenly remember Rashida. The events of the night—the close game, the media attention afterwards, my teammates inviting me out with them—had all distracted me. Once at the club, I’d easily slipped back into my habits of the last few years, looking for a hot young conquest or two. Of course, I was completely mesmerized by Lexi Snow, as would be anyone of my generation.

  But now Lexi has given me a full hard-on, and some little voice in my head admonishes me, telling me that hard-on isn’t something I can let her have. Sure, I could probably get away with fucking Lexi and Rashida would never know. That doesn’t feel right, though.

  I pull away from Lexi’s kiss and take her by the shoulders, pushing her back slightly, off my body. Using her hoodie to shield us from the public, her hand finds my hard-on and grabs it tightly. My cock twitches at the unexpected touch as Lexi looks up at me with a playful sluttiness in her eyes, letting me know in no uncertain terms that she’s a very dirty girl.

  “I want this, Marcus,” is all she says, but those are Lexi Snow’s lust-filled eyes I’m gazing into, and that’s Lexi Snow’s hand squeezing my hard cock. All I have to do is set aside my feelings for Rashida for a couple of hours and I can have the woman of my teenage dreams. The devil and angel inside of me argue furiously for a second or two.

  Then I take her by the wrist and quickly remove the intruding hand.

  “Lexi, I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can, Marcus,” she says, placing her hand right back on my firm shaft and squeezing it tightly. “You obviously want to.”

  I again remove her hand, this time slipping my fingers between hers and interlocking them. I look down at this insanely hot woman and sigh heavily.

  “More than you’ll ever know,” I tell her, “but I can’t. There’s someone else.”

  “Is it serious?” she asks, probing for an angle.

  “I don’t know yet. But I need to find out first.”

  We have a brief stare-down, then Lexi puts her other hand on my chest.

  “Your loss, baby.”

  Then she slinks off down the hallway and back into the club, exuding charisma with every step.

  And I realize I’m leaning against the wall with a hard-on.

  I quickly duck into the nearby men’s room and into a stall to wait it out. Memories of what just took place in the hallway won’t go away, and neither will my boner. Eventually I decide to take matters into my own hands, pulling my cock out of my pants. I spit into my palm and grab my dick, stroking it. My brain insists on having its time with Lexi and I imagine her naked beneath me, begging me to slide it in. It only takes a couple of minutes before I feel my orgasm coming on, and I fire off an intense few shots that are so strong they hit the wall behind the toilet.

  Once I’ve finished, I stand there with my cock out and am suddenly thinking about Rashida again, and how much I miss that woman. I’m proud of myself for having resisted temptation until I know more about what she and I are doing. I also know I should get back to the hotel before I lose my willpower to resist Lexi.

  I find Andre and tell him I’m going back. He tries to get me to stay, but I’m resolute because I feel the need to call Rashida. Andre relents, then gives me a big hug, dwarfing me with his seven-foot height.

  “Great series, brother,” he says. “You really stepped up the last month. Proud of you, man.”

  I slip out of the club, and as I walk out the front door I find myself in the middle of a paparazzi storm. I’m not their target, though a few of them snap pics as I wait for my cab. Between them, a couple of valet guys and the doorman, there must be fifty people under this tarp-covered entrance as the rain continues to pour down.

  While I’m waiting, the door opens and there’s a sudden rush of photographers pushing to get past me. I move aside as flashes go off everywhere, then I see Lexi leaving the club with her entourage. She sees me as she hurries by, and the bittersweet smile I give her conveys how much I would really have loved to fuck her tonight. It just wasn’t meant to be at this point. Her people are escorted to a waiting limo by valets with umbrellas.

  At that moment, my cab pulls up behind the limo and I rush out to it without waiting for an umbrella. It’s only twenty feet, but I’m wet by the time I get in and shut the door behind me. I’m about to tell the driver what hotel when there’s
a loud rapping on my window and I turn to see Lexi standing there in the rain in her tank top, a valet holding an umbrella over her. I roll down the window and water instantly begins to splash.

  “Come out here, I wanna tell you something,” she says, backing up to give me room to open the door. I’d rather not get out in this mess, but this is Lexi Snow, my long-time masturbation fantasy. I step out and hurry under the umbrella, with the valet lifting it upward to fit me under.

  “What’s up?” I ask, laughing.

  She looks up at me, those huge hazel eyes framed by her ever-present dark mascara and smoky eye shadow.

  “I just want you to know…” she stops and turns to the valet, who’s not two feet away, dutifully trying to keep us dry.

  “We’re good,” Lexi tells him. He looks confused, then she says, “We don’t need an umbrella, we need privacy.” He finally gets it and rushes back under the tarp, folding up his umbrella and leaving the two of us in the pouring rain. I’m wearing a pair of Louboutin shoes that cost me nearly fifteen hundred bucks, but again, this is Lexi Snow. I just wish she’d hurry the fuck up because every second I’m getting wetter.

  Lexi puts her hand on my shoulder and pulls me down toward her.

  “Marcus, I wanted to say I admire you so much for staying true to your girl until you know what’s what. That’s how a real man behaves.”

  I smile at her, water running off my nose. Her skimpy tank top is soaking wet, her hard nipples and dark areolae clearly visible through the clinging white silk. I have to force myself not to stare.

  “And I also want you to know how badly I want to fuck you now. If it doesn’t work out for you, get in touch. Next month, next year, whenever.”

  Before I can reply, she pulls me closer and plants her lips against mine and she hugs me tightly. No tongue this time, just a sweet little one-second rain-soaked kiss.

  “Now go!” Lexi says, backing away. “You’re getting drenched!”

  I dash back to my cab and slide back in. Good thing the seats are vinyl, because I’m soaked through at this point. I give the driver my destination as I watch Lexi jump into her limo.