Ivanka clutched Carrie's chin, forcing her face back between her legs. Carrie thrust her face back in position, continuing where she'd left off as I pumped faster into her. Carrie was especially tight at this angle, and watching her as she stuck her tongue in and out of Ivanka's folds was fucking surreal. As I rammed in and out of Carrie's clenching cunt, I pulled her hair out of her face to make it easier for her to please Ivanka.
Ivanka seemed to be enjoying herself just as much as I was, if not even more. She kept herself upright with one straight arm and fiddled with her nipple with the other. Her husky laughter and deep, sensual moans filled my living room.
My eyelids fell shut for just a few seconds. I deepened the fingers on Carrie's hips, my thumb inching closer to her stretching asshole. But when my eyes peeled back, ready to blow, my breath jammed in my throat.
“Yo – what – what the fuck?”
Just a hair away from my nose was the flashing tip of a flat, rectangular blade. Ivanka cocked her head to the side, wiggling her fingers from behind the grip of the meat cleaver. I recognized the blue handle – it had come right from my kitchen. Carrie surfaced from Ivanka's legs, crawling off to the side.
“Surprised?” Ivanka purred, winking at me.
A few strands of her hair fell free from her behind her shoulders to frame her face. And with the way the light of the lamp was hitting her head, she looked like a goddamned angel. All the hair on my body stood, on guard.
“What the fuck is going on –”
“I saw the way you were looking at that bitch when you were fucking her,” Ivanka growled. She scrunched her lips and jabbed them to the right, indicating Carrie. “Tell me, did it feel good to have your balls knocking against her pretty pussy?”
“Are you fucking crazy?” I backed away from her slowly, but Ivanka only leaned closer to me. “You were the one that called her –”
“Just tell me one thing, King.”
“Hey, back the fuck off –”
“Was it worth it?”
“What?”
Ivanka wielded the cleaver over her head, her demented smile so unnaturally wide the corners were cracking and oozing red...
I jolted up in my bed, my eyes snapping open. My head was throbbing and my ears ringing like I'd just been the brunt of a 6-man pileup. Behind me, there was a sweat outline of my body on the pillows and sheets.
“Don't stop, Renee. Yeah, just like that. Suck that clit like you mean it, baby –”
I tapped on the space bar and “Escape” button on my laptop, which was sitting on the empty side of the bed. The scene of the hot blonde and brunette sharing a double-ended dildo vanished from the screen. I slammed my laptop shut and fell back on my pillow, shaking my head.
“The fuck was that?”
Chapter Twenty-Five: Kingsley
I sunk down in my armchair, surveying Coach's office. I'd been in and out of this place a couple of times, mostly to get my ass chewed out during one of Coach's hour-long sermons, but I'd never really taken the time to get a good look at the place. For dealing with a bunch of sloppy, sweaty men on a daily basis, Coach was pretty anal about keeping things clean around here.
Team pictures, flags, and some of the more limited edition memorabilia were hung up on his walls. The frames and display glasses were wiped spotless. Black and brown leather armchairs and sofas furnished the office, not one piece of furniture out of line. On top of his desk was clear tempered glass that weighed down the hand-drawn pictures and letters from his kids. Another set of photo frames of his family and old friends were set up on his desk. There were dozens of pictures in this place, but not one of them was of Coach himself. In one corner sat an antique but working phonograph and cabinet with his record collection. And finally, right next to that was a wooden liquor cabinet brimming with expensive bottles of wine and brandy.
I was staring at the red blob his 3-year-old drew him, trying to figure out what it was, when the door behind me opened.
“I ever tell you kids about one of my homeboys, Pookie?”
Coach hung up his whistle behind the door. He took his seat across me and set his cap on the table, running a hand through his short, coarse hair. I shifted in my seat and shook my head quietly.
“Pookie was one bad motherfucker.” Coach wheeled his chair over to the liquor stand, fixing himself a smooth glass of Pyrat. “Want a drink?”
“No, thanks, Coach.”
“Suit yourself.” Coach drank from his glass and wheeled himself back to his desk. He lowered his drink on the table, smacking his lips. “Ah, that's smooth. Now, let's get back to Pookie. We were tight, and I mean, the 2 of us were inseparable back then. Played basketball and football together at the community center, then out on the streets when the community center burned down. That's him, right there.”
Coach flipped one of the frames on his desk over so I could see it. I leaned in, squinting to get a closer look at the shit quality of the photograph. Coach pointed out the kid on the far right of the group picture. He looked to be in his early 20s, looking fresh to death in a green Fubu tracksuit, a platinum chain, and a bucket hat with the brim so low you could hardly see his eyes.
“Cool.” I didn't know what else to say.
“Pookie was the coolest guy around. Everyone respected him and the ladies couldn't get enough of him. He thought he was invincible, and I did, too. I wanted to be just like him.” Coach put the frame back in its place and folded his fingers on his desk. “I graduated with a Sports Management degree, but Pookie never made it past the 10th grade. When Pookie was 18, he got a girl pregnant. Started living with his baby mama and kid, working a full-time job and slinging on the side to support them.”
I rested an arm on my armrest and started picking at a piece of flaky skin on my lip. Yeah, I knew what this was. Coach was doing that thing where he incorporated a life lesson into his pep talks.
“Sold whatever his suppliers could get their hands on – weed, meth, coke, pills, you name it,” Coach continued. “When I graduated, my sister came down with tuberculosis. Ashanti beat it, and she's fine now, but back then, it destroyed us all. My parents were broke, and I was fresh out of college. Nobody was hiring, so I was unemployed. Pookie was the only one I could count on – he offered me a run, a big one.”
Coach took another drink from his glass, gazing wistfully at the frame on his desk.
“All I had to do was deliver the product to a room at the Moonbeam Motel, collect the 30 grand, and make off with my cut of 2 grand.” He leaned back in his chair, sighing sadly. “Got busted 5 minutes into the deal by a room full of undercover cops. They caught me red-handed. Bags, scales, change – it was all there. They would have let me off with a couple hours of community service if I gave Pookie up, but I couldn't. That was my boy, and he was the only one providing for his family. I did 2 and a half years before I got out on good behavior.”
“That's rough, Coach.” I swallowed uneasily. “Where's Pookie now?”
“Pookie, his wife, and his kid were shot in a drive-by 3 months into my sentence.” Coach's eyes welled up for a moment. He looked away with pink eyes, blinking furiously as he cleared his throat.
“Sorry, Coach.”
“You know, you've got this gift of slipping through the cracks. I don't know how you do it, but you best be counting those lucky stars of yours,” said Coach grimly. His thick gray brows met in the middle of his wrinkled forehead. “You're extremely fortunate the story's been nothing more than just hearsay and speculation – no one's been bold enough to claim evidence yet. You best hope the situation doesn't escalate.”
“Understood, Coach.” I had to sit on one of my hands to keep myself from looking fidgety and suspicious.
Coach tugged on the small braid at the end of his beard, his gaze getting more intense.
“Now, I'm going to ask you this just this once, and you better not lie to me, boy. How much of what's being said out there is true?”
What Odell said to me in the alley behind
the Twin Acres bar intersected with my thoughts. He hadn't spoken to me since we made that pact. And as I looked back at the hopeful light in Coach's tired eyes, I knew the man couldn't afford another disappointment. I wiped my damp hands on the sides of my pants and looked back at him, doing my best not to blink and keep my tone measured.
“None of it, Coach.”
Coach studied me for a few seconds before nodding brusquely.
“Now, normally your ass would have been suspended for all of this nonsense. Gunther isn't happy about any of this, and he was about to follow through until Ivanka coaxed him out of it. I don't know why, but I wouldn't be asking too many questions if I were you. That's another ass you'll need to keep kissing. And you better stay extra vigilant – the press will be watching your every move.”
“Understood.”
“Good. You can go. I'll see you at practice tomorrow.”
“Definitely, Coach. I'll be the first one here.”
I headed out Coach's office. When I opened the door to leave, I heard a soft yelp. Carrie stood at the opposite end of the door, clutching her tablet to her chest. The hot image of Carrie going down on Ivanka was all I could see in my mind's eye, but I quickly recovered.
“Oh, God. You scared me.”
“You weren't listening in, were you?” I shut the door behind me, squaring my shoulders.
“What? Of course not.” Carrie snapped indignantly. An angry red swept across her cheeks. “I'm here for a meeting with Coach.”
“If you say so.” I shrugged and started to go around her, but she stepped in front of me.
“Kingsley, just wait.” Carrie took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. She curled her fingers to fists, looking like it was physically ailing her to do to this. “Whatever you're going through right now is unfortunate – it may be well-deserved, but unfortunate. And maybe we're not on the best of terms right now, but I would really appreciate it if we could keep things civil between us.”
“I am being civil.”
“Good. So you'll stop with all these rumors about me, then,” said Carrie astutely.
“I haven't said a word about you,” I replied coolly. “Whatever conclusions they came to is on them. In spite of what you think, you're really not all that important.”
“Fine. You believe whatever you wanna believe,” Carrie muttered. She sucked in her lips, dropping her gaze. “But please, keep this between us. I know you still have a couple of days to withdraw the payment for Jackson's medication, but please, don't take this out on him. He's done nothing wrong. If you and I could just work out a schedule –”
“The thought's never even crossed my mind,” I assured her, but I kept my voice leveled and emotionless. “And like I said, don't worry about the money. I'm doing this for Jackson, not you –”
“Is everything alright over here?”
Carrie and I spun around at the sound of Ivanka's voice. She had crept up behind me, her heels muted by the carpet in the hallway. I loosened my shoulders, nodding.
“Yup. Everything's great. I was just heading out.”
“And I've got a meeting with Coach, so...” Carrie placed a hand on the doorknob.
“Of course,” said Ivanka, smiling innocently at Carrie. “I hope you know I enjoyed our nice little chat in the toilet earlier.”
“Yup,” said Carrie, twisting the doorknob. “Excuse me.”
Before I could ask any questions, Carrie slid into Coach's office.
“Come on.” Ivanka slipped her fingers through mine, squeezing. When I resisted, poking my head in all directions of the hallway, Ivanka tightened her grip. “Don't worry. Everyone's gone home, even the staff. So, shall we head to your place or mine?”
Imagining Ivanka with my kitchen cleaver in her hands, my answer came without missing a beat.
“Yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Six: Carrie
“Kingsley wants me, and only me. I got to him first, so he is mine, simple as that. I do not know what 'no' means, and I always get what I want. This is just a taste of what's to come. Mark my words, Carrie Toussaint, if you ever cross Ivanka Svensson again...du kommer att betala.”
Ivanka's queen bee speech had been weaseling its way into my thoughts since our run-in at the clubhouse ladies' room. I was so disturbed and intrigued by her words I looked up what the last part of her speech meant right after Ivanka left the bathroom. Apparently, she ended her speech by warning me that “I was going to pay.”
Her self-obsessed rant would have been laughable if it weren't for the fact that the 20-something-year-old woman said it with a straight face. And I mean, she meant every last word of it. It was clear the woman lived in her own world and was practically a different species. Her unreal beauty and talent intoxicated everyone she crossed paths with, and she had become so comfortable having things her way that anything just a little askew from her standards meant chaos for everyone else around her. In simpler terms, she was a high-key version of Jamie, if Jamie had money.
But when I delved a little deeper into Ivanka's history through the magic of Google, I may have understood her a little better. Ever since she was 3, Ivanka had been groomed for just about every child pageant in Sweden, with her poor family relying on her prize earnings for income. She eventually moved to the United States at age 18, pursuing a lengthy stint with softcore porn and bondage modeling, while she started her own fashion line on the side. When Tyra Slow, the nation's best-selling country-pop star, began endorsing Ivanka's clothing line, sales went through the roof. She then retired 3 years later when she married Sam Gunther. When you've come so far from absolutely nothing, I couldn't imagine the lengths someone would go to just to keep that from slipping away.
It didn't take long for me to put 2 and 2 together. Ivanka was more than most likely the “anonymous tipster” the media has yet to stop going on about. But of course, I was alone on this one, and I wasn't about to point any fingers without an inkling of proof, lest I look even more suspicious...
“Alright, ma'am, we're here. Chelsea Park.”
I fished out the fare and paid the driver, hastily thanking him as I disembarked from the cab.
As the cab drove away into the night, I swung the strap of my purse over my shoulder and looked around me. Chelsea Park was glowing from the rows of twin street lamps. The stone walkways were mottled with shadows of leaves from the tall, rustling trees. Couples, both young and old, strolled through the park, sharing laughter and private smooches.
“Ms. Toussaint?”
An older man in an old-fashioned overcoat and a matching top hat approached me. Behind him stood a regal horse-drawn carriage with a black body and gold swirls, detailing, and wheels. Vintage oil lanterns hung from every side of the body, crackling prettily as it lit up the carriage path. The horse was equally beautiful, with a flowing black mane and a a rich chestnut coat.
“I – yes?”
The man smiled, knocking on the carriage door. Val emerged from within, dressed in a suit reminiscent of the '20s and white bowling shoes capped in black leather. He even had his normally country-club hair parted and slicked back from his face. His old-timey swagger tonight was refreshing and entirely pleasant to look at. The diamond stud on his ear only added an extra touch of bad boy to his visual class act.
“Oh my – Val, what is all this?” I was flabbergasted, holding onto my chest as I drank it all in. “I thought I'd overdone it when you suggested I wear something special, but I'm starting to feel like I'm a little under-dressed...”
“You're dressed just right. You look beautiful...I mean, damn.” Val looked me up and down, even leaning back to check out my backless red pouf dress.
“I – thank you.” I lowered my eyes and flashed him a small smile, enjoying a short burst of pride and titillation at his longing gaze. “You're not looking too shabby yourself.”
“Thanks.” Val offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
I took Val's arm and followed him into the carriage. The coachman got up front, guiding the
horse onto the walkway. He used the string lights entwined around the street lamps to lead the way, stopping at a cornered off section in the rose garden.
As Val helped me out of the carriage, my jaw loosened on its own accord. A dressed round table set up with 2 chairs sat in the middle of the grass. Candles on a 5-tiered holder flickered between the fancy dishware. A chef and personal server in uniform bustled behind a portable kitchen, with the breeze carrying the scent of roast beef, garlic, and freshly baked pastries in our direction. Right then, the lonely, overweight, and unloved teenager in me awoke, basking in her moment.
“I don't even know what to say. This is all so – it's brilliant.” I settled into my seat, beaming uncontrollably. “I can't believe you put this all together. And for our first dinner, too?”
“Let's just say I wanted to make a good impression.” Val grinned. He leaned back in his chair, snapping his fingers.
The server hurried over to us, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and filled our glasses.
“Impression made.” I raised my glass, clinking it against Val's.
“Salute.”
The chef brought us our appetizers – goat cheese and strawberry balsamic canapes.
“Please, dig in.”
“Don't mind if I do.” I crunched down on half my canape, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. “Mmm.”
“Right?” Val winked. “You can slow down a little. There's plenty more coming. We've got an 8 course dinner lined up ahead of us.”
“8?” I swallowed the canape. My eyes bulged even wider when a man in a tuxedo and violin stepped out from the bushes, strumming the tune to “Fur Elise.” “That's beautiful. Remind me, why are you single again?”
Val laughed nervously. He drank from his glass, but when his whistle was wet, his lips aligned. The corners of his eyes drooped with his reply.
Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance Page 45