by Lulu Wright
“You’re so tight,” he growls in my ear, hands rough on my hips, pinning me against the wall.
“Fuck,” I moan, tossing my hair over my shoulder. Mark gathers my hair in his fist and pulls, making me gasp.
“I’m gonna make you come so hard.”
I can’t help but obey, crying out faintly as I peak over the edge, the orgasm making my whole body quake. He keeps thrusting, hard, unrelenting, and I spiral right back to the edge, nearly ready to come again when he pins me to the wall and fucks me fast and hard, his breath a hot rush in my ear as he finishes, gasping.
Thank god he’s this strong, because I couldn’t stand on my own right now. Only his stiff biceps and the wall behind me keep me upright.
Then, without warning, while we’re both still panting for air, trying to recover, there’s a knock at the door. By its light, rhythmic tap I know—thank god—it’s Becks. I am not 100% in love with the idea of her figuring out what’s been up in here (Mark), but out of all the staff, she’s the least likely to spill my juicy secrets. The production room is her MILFy personal fuck palace, so she knows if she rats on me, I’ve got more than enough dirt on her.
“Be out in a sec,” I manage to blurt out. Becks mumbles a response and I hear her walk away. Mark’s head rests on my shoulder. I feel the sweat of his forehead trickle down my clavicle, and his gasps of breath warm my neck. Me, I’m gasping into his forehead, my breaths stirring the hair at his temples.
The room starts to resolve into a normal room again, not a distant hallucination. I wriggle out of his embrace, but he clings tighter to me. After a second, I push him off with a gentle shove. His jeans are around his ankles and he’s got that wry little smile on his face that tells a girl: job well done. As I adjust my skirt, he pulls up his pants and leans in to kiss me again.
“We should do that again sometime.” He takes my face in his big hands. “Like right now, or…” He raises an eyebrow. “In a few minutes…”
But Becks is tapping at the door again. “Seriously, Rose,” she barks. “The production room isn’t here for your personal use.”
“We have to get out of here,” I hiss and skirt past him to locate my underwear.
“There.” Mark points up to the ceiling.
“How the hell…” My lacy purple French cut briefs are dangling from the light fixture. I try to reach the low ceiling, but my fingers are about half a foot out of reach. Becks is going to freak out.
“Let me.” Mark reaches up and easily plucks them from the fan.
As I wiggle into my errant panties, I squint at him. “So, this isn’t going to become a locker room rumor, is it?” That was always the expression I used with him to keep myself out of the rumor mill when we made out in high school, but now I say it as a tease.
The post-fuck smile on his face grows as he shakes his head. “Our little secret.” He looks me up and down. “You decent?”
I do a quick wardrobe check. “Decent,” I confirm, seeing he has his hand on the doorknob.
We open the door to Becks’ scowling face. “Wow, really?” She rolls her eyes. “At least wait until the overnight shift like the rest of us.”
Giggling, and hoping I’m not blushing too hard, we speed walk down the hallway away from the incriminating circumstantial evidence.
13
Mark
The last couple of days has been a challenge to see how many crazy places Rose and I can fuck. My truck has been christened, cab and flatbed alike. We did it in her office and in the lobby after hours while that vampire chick yammered on through a speaker about The Cure, and again as the blowup doll watched. Seems like there are only three places we haven’t done it: her bed, my bed, and the W-ALT DJ booth.
I want to see her place to see if matches what’s in my head—an altar to the music she loves. I expect candles burning around a framed picture of The Ramones with a lottery ticket propped up against it. I am sure she’s got band T-shirts, cds and LPs laying all over the place, plus maybe an electric guitar leaning against a wall.
I want her to see my place too, my cabin. I want her to see how far I’ve come. Since my last explosion, I cleaned up. The floors have been swept of smashed glass and I replaced the broken couch and injured flat screen TV. So far, I haven’t destroyed anything else.
This morning I am dusting my piano. Yeah, I do it myself, because I am particular about how it’s done. Can’t trust the maid to use the special microfiber cloth I bought or have a gentle touch.
This isn’t the piano I grew up playing. That one my mom sold for drugs. This one I got at an estate sale.
Rose doesn’t know I play. Nobody left alive does, in fact. I want to show her I still remember how, but not only can I not decide which song, I can’t seem to get her to agree to come to my place. Never mind getting an invite to hers.
She’s friendly and flirty with me on the on air and the sex in my truck is smoking hot. She’s hungry for it when we fuck, and she even seems emotional sometimes, as we catch each other’s eyes afterward, or when she’s resting in my arms, gasping from her latest orgasm. But part of me thinks that maybe she still thinks I’m beneath her. Maybe I am still beneath her.
I find I’m rubbing the piano too hard and I back off. Later, when I calm down, I’ll finish. The phone rings. City number. “Yeah?” I pick up.
“Hey, kid. I’m out in Jersey. About thirty minutes away. Can I stop by?”
I take a moment to decide whether I feel anxious or happy, but end up just feeling confused. Stanley’s phone calls recently have been short and to the point, so this visit is unexpected. “Sure,” I finally say. “Come on over.”
Time away from me has done wonders for Stanley. After I hand him a club soda, he sits on my couch. He looks fifteen years younger. His frown lines are gone and it looks like he got some sun.
“Key West,” he clarifies, easing back on my couch. “Bev and I took a long weekend.”
As he sips his club soda, I notice my stomach is turning over. I’m not known for my subtlety, so I just drive right in. I cross my arms. “Still hating me, huh?”
He coughs a little club soda as he shakes his head. “No, kid. I could never hate you.” He takes another sip and then looks at me. “I just wanted you to grow up. That’s all.”
I don’t say anything. I stare at my half polished piano.
“You seem to be getting on track, from what I hear. Radio gig is going well. Make-up appearances with Tommy worked. Your therapist says good things.”
Nodding, I look back at him. “I haven’t missed one session with him. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. The angry one.”
Stanley smiles. “No more slugging anything besides a ball?”
I shake my head. “Those days are behind me.”
“Even if a guy like Tommy Pizza gets in your face?”
I snort. “Even if he deserves it.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t let guys like that rent space in your head, kid.”
“I know.”
He sets his drink on the coffee table and slaps his knees. “Time to address this radio business before we meet with that nut owner tomorrow. And we have to talk about this new 24 Hour Radio Marathon I just talked to the station about. You and Rose are going to raise a lot of money.”
Another night, another event. These parties are all the same. Press, PR types and a couple celebs with their people. The drinks are generous and the food is sparse, but you always get a decent swag bag. It’s stupid how much getting these bags pleases me. Dumb stuff really. When I look in the bag I see stuff I never knew I wanted. A bottle of top of the line whiskey, a DVD of some action movie I’ve never heard of, cuff links, three power bars and, of course, the whole reason we’re all here tonight—Bust Up digital socks—since they’re the newest official sponsor of Little Sluggers. These socks are made to broadcast to your social media accounts how far you walk in a day, how many calories you burn, how much energy you expend, to try and guilt you into exercising, I guess.
I look around to see what happened. Did the lights dim? Did someone open a window?
Then I see her.
Rose breezes through the room in a tight little red dress that instantly makes me and probably every other guy in this room think dangerous thoughts. Pair that with her kissable mouth and those long, sensuous legs, legs I can still feel wrapped around my waist as I thrust into her, and well…I’m going to have trouble keeping it in my pants for long tonight. She’s showing off some skin tonight and those heels make her shapely legs look even hotter than usual. I spot her the second she walks into the place, and so does everyone else it seems. She literally steals the air right out of the room.
I watch her scan the room with an inscrutable look on her face until she sees me and smiles.
Then, “Hey, Bad Boy,” a woman interrupts, shoving another drink in my hand. I don’t even see that girl; I’m already dodging past her toward Rose.
As I keep my eyes on Rose, hangers-on surround me, like it’s a giant plan to keep me from my goal. The guy to the left is from some beer company and the guy to the right of me is from ESPN. The girl with him keeps eyeing me like she’s wondering if her boyfriend will mind if she propositions me for a threesome.
My ear has been buzzing all night with bullshit praise and pitches. Stanley and his team do their best to keep them off of me, but a bunch of them manage to weasel through anyway. I just smile and nod. That’s what I do. Smile and fucking nod.
I prefer my sincere diehards. They live and breathe baseball. Not money and fame, which is all these hangers-on have to like about me.
I watch Rose walk to the bar and order a drink. We agreed to keep our distance tonight, that’s the deal. Everything on the down low. Everything a secret. Not sure if she likes that because she thinks it’s the sexy thrill of a secret affair, or if she just doesn’t want it on the street that we hit it.
And we are def hooking up later. She’s thrown me a bone and let me throw her mine. Haha.
She’s agreed to come to my place in the city tonight. I have Moet chilling in the freezer and a list of filthy things I want to do to her. I was able to talk the maid into an emergency deep clean and I got West Elm to deliver some fancy knickknacks. I have this sewn up. She will see I am not that wrong side of the tracks guy anymore. The condo ain’t home like my cabin, but it’s nice.
“Hey! Hey!” some guy in a suit shouts at me. I can tell by his wobbled walk and glassy eyes he’s been hitting something hard and I’m not sure if it’s uppers or whiskey or both. He makes his way through the crowd and hits my back a couple of times hard as he leans into me and mumbles something about real estate.
“Excuse me.” I walk away from him and I can hear him slur a curse behind me.
I make a beeline to Rose and I notice her bristle a little. She looks around the room like she’s worried someone might see her with me.
“We do work together,” I point out in a low voice when I reach her.
She laughs, and the deep, throaty sound sends a jolt straight to my crotch. “I know, I know.”
Her Tequila Sunrise is almost empty, so I order her another and get a beer for myself. I see the bartender has opened the Brooklyn Brewery bottle and intends to hand it to me. “In a glass, please.” I notice Rose has a question mark on her face. I lean into her. “I think I have a beer contract pending, so I can’t be seen drinking any specific brand in a picture.”
Rose fights the urge to smile, I can tell. “Is all that hard to keep track of?”
I tug at my suit jacket. “I’m getting paid 50 large to wear this tonight. That’s not even counting the shoes.” I pull at my tie. “This is only five thousand though.”
Rose brushes my tie with her fingers and even though she’s not touching me, I feel like she’s stroking skin not silk. “Are you a walking billboard or what?”
I mean to chuckle, but it sounds a little sad. “Pretty much. My body is for rent.”
She tilts her head. “Is that weird for you?”
“It was when it first started. I dunno. Awkward. But these clothing companies pay me to wear these clothes, so when I get papped they get press. And it’s not like I had any brands I really loved to wear before or anything. So why not? Win-win for both of us.”
“I guess everything has a price.”
“Well…” I let my eyes rake over her body, slowly, then lean closer to her and look into her eyes. “Not everything.”
She smirks. “True. I’m not for sale, if that’s what you’re thinking, Mr. Bigshot Ballplayer.”
“That is exactly what I love about you,” I reply, trailing a finger up her arm, barely touching her, aware of all the eyes on us. But fucking hell, do I want to do more. I can tell by her desperate little shiver that she does, too. I lean in closer to her ear and murmur, “I can’t wait to fuck you tonight.”
As she bites her lip and looks away, cheeks flushed red, I rest my eyes on her tits that are popping out of her dress.
“You are such a tease…” she whispers back, but she looks kind of dreamy about it, eyes half-hooded, and I want to kiss her right here, right now, fuck what anyone else thinks. But then I see her face drop as her eyes focus on something behind me.
I turn around.
Amber.
Yes, that Amber. My ex saunters her 5’10” frame straight toward us with a couple of hair tosses and an arched eyebrow. How the hell does she keep getting into my events?
Oh, right. I guess being the highest paid model in the world tends to make doormen sympathetic.
That, and she’s probably fucking another one of my teammates by now. Back when we split, I thought that would bother me. Now, I don’t even mind the thought.
She’s still walking this way and waving. Rose shocks me by waving back. “You know her?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course not.”
Rose wiggles off the barstool and greets Amber with a polite introduction and one of those air hugs girls do. Looking at them side by side, I can’t help but compare the two. Rose is standing next to Maxim magazine’s hottest woman alive, but I can’t see Amber at all. All I see is Rose’s long, honey colored hair brushing the curve of her waist and that easy, sweet laugh bubbling out of her bee stung mouth.
Amber must be sensing defeat, because after sneaking a look at me, and me refusing to meet her eye, too busy watching the dip where Rose’s dress reveals her smooth, bare shoulder, Amber skulks off to another teammate.
“Sorry about that…” I murmur to Rose. But Rose just shrugs and tugs my tie.
“I’ll see you later,” Rose says, drawing out the word later so I know it’s a promise. As I watch her walk away, Amber notices and walks back my way.
Dammit.
Now I feel Rose’s paranoia about the all-seeing public eye. I do not want the media to think Amber and I are an item again.
Amber touches my face with her long fingers and I pull away with a fake smile on my face just in case someone with a camera is watching.
“Still mad?” she purrs.
“Let’s not do this.” I step away. I spot Stanley talking to one of his interns and I head straight to him. He excuses the college kid with a glance in Amber’s direction. His face is red and I watch him take out a handkerchief and dab his forehead. When I reach him, he shakes his head. “You have to expect that.”
“What?”
He rubs his neck and winces. “Amber’s career has cooled since you two broke up.”
“No way.”
“Twenty five is ancient in model years. She needs to be paired with someone like you to keep her career afloat.”
“Stan, her face is everywhere and she’s already banging another jock, I’m sure.”
Stanley laughs, closes his eyes and scrunches his left shoulder. “She ain’t no superm
odel. She’s just a pretty girl who looks good in a bikini. Each day another younger, prettier new girl steals her thunder. I hear Ford might be dropping her.”
There’s no sympathy in my heart for her. “That’s her problem, not mine.”
I hear Stanley gasp and wonder if he’s really that sympathetic to poor Amber the aged-up model’s dilemma. But then he falls against me. On instinct, I catch him, but he’s heavy, and it takes him a second to find his feet again. At first I think he’s drunk, and marvel, because I’ve never seen him even tipsy. Then I realize he’s clutching his chest with one hand and squeezing my hand with the other. Is it his heart?
“Get me out of here, kid,” he wheezes. “Don’t let anyone know what’s going on.”
14
Rose
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but he doesn’t appear to be home,” Mark’s doorman says as he puts down his desk phone. He’s about my age and might be cute without the pornstache. He stares at me, waiting for me to say something.
“What do you mean? Of course he’s home. He’s expecting me.”
“Sorry ma’am, apparently not. There’s no answer.”
“Well, try again.”
The doorman gives me a pursed lip smile. “Ma’am, I have tried three times. There is no answer. He’s either not at home or…” He bows his head at me as if giving me the cue to finish the sentence for me.
I only do it in my mind. Is Mark avoiding me?
No. Why would he? He was all hot and bothered about seeing me tonight. Something must have come up. Or he fell asleep. Or he’s in the shower. Or, I don’t know. Something.
“Do you mind if I wait here?” I point to a couch in the lobby.
“Sorry, miss. I am afraid you have to leave.”
I’m sure this guy has turned away countless women on Mark’s behalf. I can’t exactly blame him for lumping me in with those girls.