Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance

by Christina Clark

  Apart from the drama with the project, or more appropriately, lack thereof, and the resulting stagnancy in progress because of it, things couldn't have been better. Kingsley and I were taking it slow, but we saw each other frequently in between his practices. To keep up pretenses, we stayed out of each other's way and made sure to snap at each other at the clubhouse at the presence of the rest of his teammates. It made our secret quickies in the locker room and kitchen storage room after hours all the more risky and exciting.

  Kingsley also stopped showing up unannounced at The Daily Dirt office. The last thing I wanted was for Wattana to get wind of us and throttle me harder than she was already doing about her sacred exposé – the final piece of the project. But we did happen upon Lisa Wiener at The Saffron Hut with her uppity Wall Street trophy husband. The night had already been amazing, but it was the look of incredulous envy exuding from Lisa's grimace that really sealed the deal for me.

  “What are you looking so happy about?”

  Jamie walked down the creaking battered steps, joining me in the basement. She had just come home from work, still dressed in her atrocious red-and-white striped uniform and a disposable paper hat bearing the fast food restaurant's logo. I slid to the right, giving her some room and catching a whiff of the grease and fried chicken on her clothes. She leaned over the basket and began to help me with the folding.

  “Nothing.” I withdrew my dreamy smile, changing the subject. It was immediately clear that Jamie had had a bad day at work and was now on another one of her fishing trips for sympathy. I'd much rather let her exaggerated sighs and woe-is-me expression be, but if I didn't nibble, she'd be sulking for the rest of the day. “What's wrong, Jamie? Long day at work?”

  “Yeah. Carson sent me home early today. This other girl, Binky, too. It hasn't been as busy lately, and Carson's been cutting my hours, the dick.”

  I was tempted to tell Jamie exactly what I thought, but I bit my tongue, deciding against poking the testy crab.

  “That's rough. Maybe you can try going in a little earlier, do a little extra work, show you've got some initiative. At least, that's what I do when Wattana's giving me a hard time at the office.”

  “Whatever, like that's gonna do me any good,” Jamie replied crossly. “Guess I don't need you to pick Jackson up from his play date anymore now that I'm here.”

  “Really? That'd be great.” I laid all 3 columns of the folded clothes back into the basket and hugged it to my chest. “I can actually freshen up a little before I go out then –”

  “What's that, like, the third time this week now? So what is this? Are you guys, like, an item?”

  “I don't know what we are,” I answered her truthfully, but Jamie was seriously testing me. “What I do know is that I'm going out, end of story.”

  “This isn't just about you, Carrie. You've been exposing Jackson to Kingsley, some random dude we know nothing about –”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Can we watch the vocabulary here?” I screwed up my face in disgust. “What are you trying to twist this into now? First of all, I would never leave Jackson alone with at least 2 trusted adults present. And you had no problems accepting Kingsley's money –”

  “I don't want Kingsley spending any more time with my son. I forbid it,” Jamie cut me off coldly. I swore there was a flicker of an evil smile on her lips, but it could have just been the imagined result of me demonizing her at that very moment.

  “You know that's not fair, Jamie. You've seen how Jackson is around Kingsley. Why would you try to take that –”

  “Yes, I've seen it, and again, it's called protecting my son. I don't even have to explain myself to you. I'm Jackson's mother, and I'm the one calling the shots around here. Not you, not Jackson, not Kingsley – me.”

  “Whatever, Jamie. You go ahead with your little power trip. Talk to me when you've realized how unreasonable you're being.”

  I was halfway up the stairs before Jamie decided she had more of her brilliant 2 cents to shed.

  “And as your sister, I'm going to say this again. You're falling real hard, real fast for Kingsley Kelly, and don't tell me otherwise because I see that dopey look on your face when you're thinking about him. You're just his flavor of the week, and he's gonna get tired of vanilla real soon. Not trying to sound harsh, just stating facts.”

  Jamie was saying everything she possibly could to hurt or get a rise out of me, but what I couldn't ignore was the inkling of doubt sprouting inside of me because of it.

  As I stared back at Jamie's sullen expression, her downturned lips bitterly screwed shut under that stupid paper hat, I exhaled meditatively. I've never needed anyone's help with character judgment, and I didn't need the help now, much less from someone who got herself knocked up at 16. Besides, a monkey could see that Jamie was just feeling jealous that the source of her son's happiness no longer exclusively revolved around his mother.

  “Great stuff. Thanks for the advice.” I continued up the steps.

  “Fine, don't listen to me, but don't come crawling back to me when you prove me right!”

  “I won't be back for dinner,” I called over my shoulder, ignoring her. “There's some leftover butternut squash and coconut curry for you and Jackson in the fridge.”

  Jamie was still talking, but I kicked the basement door shut behind me, stifling the rest of her exhausting negativity.

  Chapter Nineteen: Kingsley

  “And that's a wrap!”

  As the boa around my neck lifted its head, hissing, the 3 models posing around my throne yelped and promptly scattered. The snake handler hushed them, shooing them away as he carefully eased the boa over my neck. I rose from my throne, which was fitted with a badass but uncomfortable collection of chrome swords, skulls, and footballs. Rubbing my ass, I thanked the blushing intern for bringing me a glass of water and indulged my thirst.

  Jerry Rhinestone hopped off the director's chair and made his way towards me.

  “We took some great shots today, King! Thanks for coming out again. Sales have been dipping lately, but we're hoping that all changes with our new Kingsley Kelly limited edition line. Hopefully that brings in the 18-34 year old males we're looking to rope in.” The chubby man took the black cologne bottle from my hands eagerly. “We'll shoot you a tweet when they're published.”

  The colognes were literally bottled with extracts of my sweat along with a concoction of other junk. It smelled like minty cat piss, but apparently the idea alone spawned over 14,000 pre-orders from fans I'm sure I never want to meet. It might have seemed like an absurd idea if I didn't just hear about that vaginal beer they were trying to make out of that Czech supermodel. But when Jerry called me personally, informing me I'd be making over $12 million after taxes and another $150K for each tweet, I wasn't turning that shit down for a second.

  “Sounds good, Jerry. I gotta run. Some place I gotta be.”

  “No problem. You take care, King.”

  “You too, Jerry. Have a good one.”

  I headed for the exit, reaching into my pocket to check my phone. There were 8 unread messages from Ivanka, sent from over 3 hours ago. When I clicked into the messaging app, I scrolled through the succession of dirty pictures.

  To say these were suggestive would have been putting it lightly. Ivanka hadn't actually typed anything, but she conveyed her message loud and clear with pictures of colorful dildos rammed in every orifice in her body at one time. I looked through the pictures of Ivanka's pink cunt and asshole stretched out by the purple silicone dicks. The last picture showed a close-up of her with her tongue out, licking the glistening shaft of the dildo. Just a couple of weeks back, I'd be weaving in and out of traffic just to get to the Gunther residence. Now, all that was left was a draining sense of obligation and guilt.

  I swiped out of the message gallery and tapped the “New Message” window.

  “At Lexington Blvd. Too far away from your place. Meet me at mine in 20.”

  Ivanka's reply came 3 seconds after that, almo
st as if she'd been waiting right by her phone.

  “Good boy. See you soon.”

  I tucked my phone back into my pocket and exited the studio, walking to my car, which I'd parked in the shade.

  I got into my car, tossing my phone into the passenger's seat. After adjusting my mirrors and the sun visor to get the glare of the setting sun out of my eyes, I backed out of my spot and steered towards the exit. But just as I prepared to make a right before the yellow light turned red, a shithead on a Harley roadster ripped past me, cutting me off.

  “Ah, fuck me.” I watched the light turn red, gripping my steering wheel. As traffic poured in, I slammed the back of my head against the headrest.

  Once, I went through 8 different chicks a day in 3 sessions. With that logic, juggling 2 women shouldn't have been this fucking stressful. But real talk, who would have thought Farrah would have been the least of my problems?

  Despite my “playboy” reputation in the media, no woman has ever come out and accused me of abuse or violence of any sort, simply because there was none that ever took place. I wasn't pretending to be a model citizen, here, but I'd never laid a hand on or forced a woman to do anything they weren't comfortable with, and I aimed to keep it that way. The worst shit-talk ever done about me was some chick who said I never called her back, but that quickly became accepted as the norm. But any claims of sexual abuse from anyone, more so from one of the most reputable fashion designers in the industry – even if they were just insane, baseless allegations – was a point-blank shot in the head to your career.

  Victims are almost always believed, as they should be. After all, no one in their right mind or any shred of conscience would ever make this shit up. I always knew Ivanka could stand to get a refresher course on what manners meant, but I was completely blindsided by how downright psycho the bitch actually was.

  The light finally blinked green. But as I lowered my grip on the steering wheel to turn right, my phone buzzed with another message. I glanced at the preview of the message on the screen on of my phone hurriedly.

  “Just checking – are we still meeting at your place?”

  I tapped on the “Quick Reply” button, barely looking at the screen as I punched out a hasty message before steering the wheel.

  “Yes. B there soon.”

  XXX

  “Took you long enough.”

  Ivanka was sprawled out on my sofa with a bottle of whipped cream in her hands. Small mounds of whipped cream frosted her nipples and a V-like trail down to the lubed slit between her spread legs. I shut the front door behind me and hung up my black blazer on the coat rack.

  “You planning on returning my spare keys any time soon? My folks are coming to town, and they'll be needing it. This is the first time you've ever used them, anyway.”

  “No. I have decided that I like having this easy access to you. I can come and go whenever I please –”

  “What? No, that wasn't part of the deal –”

  “I stand by what I said. And you know, just a fair warning, it probably will not be in your best interest to change the locks on me.” Ivanka sighed, twirling a lock of her hair around her fingers lazily. “Now, are you just going to stand there?”

  Ivanka began to smear the whipped cream all over her left nipple. She scooped up a dollop with her fingertip and turned it over, beckoning me towards her. Even with blinding anger seizing every part of my body, the sight of her slapping her clit tauntingly was enough to pull me in.

  I stood at the end of the sofa, crouching next to Ivanka. She wiggled her finger into my mouth, swirling the cream all over my tongue. As soon as she drew her finger back, I bent over and mashed her tits together, slurping her nipple hungrily. Rage and my irrepressible lust for Ivanka's undeniably sweet little cunt took over my body, fueling my every move.

  I wanted to wreck that pretty pussy, milking cum out of her until the swollen lips of her cunt were physically aching and she could cum no more, and nothing was going to stop –

  The door swung open behind us.

  “Kingsley? You left your front door un...”

  Carrie stood in the doorway, looking more stunningly beautiful than I'd ever seen her. She was all dressed up in a fancy red gown that exposed her shoulders and her sleek right leg from the slit down the side. Her shiny red lips popped open, trembling as if she was mouthing all the thoughts that must have flooded into her head all at once. The makeup on her face remained intact, but her face seemed to crack. Even the bun on the back of her head seemed to sag the longer she gaped at us.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Ivanka's wicked smile unfurling from one ear to the other.

  “I guess dinner's off then, huh?”

  “Wait, Carrie –”

  Carrie yanked off her earrings and stormed off, leaving the door hanging wide open behind her.

  Chapter Twenty: Kingsley

  I finished off my 4th beer of the night, staring vacantly through the foggy haze in my living room. The sounds of laughter and playful roughhousing from the dozen or so people in my apartment drifted farther away. The reek of liquor, kush, and Lightweight Tate's throw up in the bathroom were making my eyes water, but I couldn't be fucked to move from my spot at the moment. Even the stripper shaking her bare titties just 5 feet away from me wasn't enough to pull me out of my stupor.

  Instead, I reached into the cooler Hines brought over and cracked another bottle open. Hopefully, with just a few more of these bad boys, I'd be able to keep the dismayed look on Carrie's face from plaguing my thoughts every couple of minutes.

  “Bro, you look beat the fuck up.”

  Louie's rapper cousin, Beasley, AKA Beastly, plopped down into the sofa next to me. He leaned in, a little too close for comfort, the fake ass bling on his neck nearly costing me my vision. The dude moonlighted as a dealer, and he had a reputation for selling you the best product, having tested out each and every one of them himself. That said, Beastly was always on something. He scratched the back of his ear obsessively, looking at me wildly with his permanently dilated eyes. I inched away from him, nodding.

  “What's up, Beastly?”

  “I'm good, bro, but let's talk about you, sitting over here in the corner lookin' like you just got stood up by your prom date. But fear not, 'cause Dr. Beastly always got the hook up.” Beastly reached into one of the many pockets in his coat and pulled out a fat brown blunt. He flourished his fingers with every word like he was talking over a beat. “This one's on the house. I promise, a few hits of that and whatever's ailing you will ail you no more.”

  “Naw, man, I'm good with these beers. I haven't smoked since freshman year of college. 'Sides, you know we get tested all the time.”

  “Oh, I feel you, playa. I got your back. Got some shit that won't leave a trace but still give you that oomph, know what I'm saying? But I gotta hit up one of my suppliers first to see about that –”

  “Thanks, bro, but no thanks.”

  “You sure?” Beastly pressed on, his eyes bugging out. “I mean, when I say I got everything, I mean that shit. My clients are some of the craziest motherfuckers out there. Got a dude that's asked for everything – even Krokodil.”

  “Beastly, I said –”

  “And I mean, even I wouldn't test that shit out, know what I mean? Paid an arm and a leg for that shit, too – and I mean he literally lost his arm and leg because of it, no bull. And this valley girl, too, real cute, innocent little thing, but she gets these little doses of arsenic from me. Buys in cash so there's no paper trail. Some dude must have really pissed this chick off–”

  “Yo, King. Wanna chill in the balcony for a bit?”

  Odell appeared behind me, exchanging looks with me. I nodded at him gratefully, jumping to my feet. Beastly didn't miss a beat, continuing his story to Tate's girlfriend, who was sitting next to him.

  Odell and I slipped into the balcony with our beers in hand. He closed the sliding door, sealing out the pumping tunes and chatter from the party. We slumped into our sea
ts, propping our feet up on the edge of the recliners.

  “So, you wanna tell me what's going on? You've been all mopey for 2 days straight.”

  I sighed, taking a sip from my bottle as I gazed out into the muted lighting of the 1AM skyline.

  “I screwed up real bad and I don't know how to fix it.”

  Odell took a sip of his beer, cocking one eyebrow as he waited for me to elaborate.

  “I feel like I haven't screwed up this bad since – you know. Carrie and I were seeing each other for a couple of weeks. I stopped fucking with every other girl on my contact list – except Ivanka. I was tired as balls after my shoot with Rhinestone when I got a message from her. Carrie sent me a message too, and I didn't see it, messed up and told her to meet me up at my place. We made plans to go out that night, and it completely slipped my mind. Long story short, Carrie walked in on me and Ivanka.”

  “Holy shit, King.” Odell lowered his bottle, his face darkening. “I don't know how I'd ever be able to keep up with all that drama in my life. How do you keep getting yourself caught up in all this shit? Can't say I feel sorry about Ivanka – that's all on you, man. But to do this to Carrie? She's a real nice girl –”

  “I know,” I snapped, kneading the pulsing vein in my forehead. “I really like Carrie. Fuck if I know why, but I actually give a shit about this girl. But you don't even know how insane Ivanka is man. You think Farrah's crazy, she's not even –”

  Louie slid the door open violently, his face weirdly pale and scrunched up in confusion.

  “Guys, get in here. Now. You need to see this.”

  When Odell and I followed Louie through the door, the living room was chillingly silent. Everyone was gathered around the sofa, even Sapphire, who crossed her arms over her tits and had her clasped over her mouth in horror. The only noise cutting through the heavy silence was the droning of the reporter from the TV.