by Crowe, Liz
“Like you’re not.” She hooked her fingers into his belt loop and tried to yank him back into her arms. At this moment, she wanted nothing more than his lips back on hers, his hands on her skin.
“No, hold on a second.” He held his ground, keeping his distance. “I’m not going to just … do this while you’re polluted. It’s not what I do.”
“Whaddaya mean, hot stuff?” She closed the distance between them and molded her body against his, relishing the obvious strength and heat of him under his fancy clothes. “I’ll bet you do this all the damn time.” She pressed her lips to his, or at least, she tried to. He averted his face, and her kiss landed somewhere near his ear.
He gripped her biceps. “Look at me, Makayla,” he said.
Something in the tone of his voice compelled her to bite back a smart-ass comment about not needing to be bossed around. She met his gaze. If she were not mistaken, and she didn’t think she was, Mr. Cool’s hands on her arms were shaking. She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep the distance he insisted on.
“We’re not going to do this. Not tonight. Not like this.”
“But… I…” Kayla felt herself slipping into a whine, even as her vision did that weird, doubling thing again. “I want to.”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her mouth. Unable to stop herself, she opened her lips and bit it. He shivered. “I mean it. I’m not … oh shit.”
His last words were muffled as she slipped into his arms and kissed him, hoping she could relay how much she did want to do this, today, right now, right here if she had to. His kiss was long, deep, and if there were a more perfect kiss in the universe, she sure as hell couldn’t imagine it. She sighed, keeping her eyes closed when he broke away. “Let’s get you home.”
“Fine,” she said. “Whoops.” He gripped her arm when she almost tripped over her own feet. She hiccupped, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “God. I’m pretty sexy, huh?”
“Yeah, actually, you are. That’s the problem.” He draped an arm over her shoulders and kissed her forehead. Kayla tried and failed not to imagine him doing this, and a lot more, very soon. Even as she realized she may have blown her one and only chance by getting too drunk to walk straight, she acknowledged that he had just agreed to not have sex with her because she was that drunk.
So, he was a nice guy. She sighed and pressed her face into his neck, her arm around his waist.
“I’m not that great,” she insisted. “Okay, I am but you know what I mean.” They walked in silence, the heat of the previous day still baking up from the sidewalk at well past two in the morning. “Here we are,” she said, stopping in front of her rattle-trap building.
He gazed up at it, his expression a mix of disgust and worry. “Really?”
“Yeah, Richie Rich, we can’t all own our own TV station and live in a penthouse.” She rubbed her nose even as she realized that she could barely feel it. He paused, his hands stuck in his pockets, suit coat draped over one elbow. “Do you?” She stared down at his shoes—they were dark brown, shiny, with laces. His feet were huge. She blinked at her next thought.
He tilted her chin up, which made her dizzy from too much tequila, too little food, and raw, unfamiliar lust. “Do I what?” He smiled, filled her vision, and kissed her, softly, before letting her go.
“Do you live in a penthouse?”
“As a matter of fact…”
“Great. Well, I’ll see ya … around, I guess.” She whirled on one heel, righted herself before she fell over like the lame drunk she was, and started for the door of her building.
His hand closed around her arm.
She shut her eyes for a second, then turned to face him. “Why did you come to find me tonight? I’m sick of asking you, if you must know.”
He kept pulling her until she was back in his arms. But she stayed stiff, her arms at her sides. He kissed her nose, then let her go. “We can talk more about it some other time.”
“Maybe I want to talk about it now. I mean, unless you want me to keep thinking you’re some kind of creepy stalker.”
“Fine. I wanted you to be the feature of a new documentary we’re doing. About female athletes.”
Kayla burst into giggles. “Oh … oh my God. Seriously?” she managed, around the laughter. “Hang on. Dude, did you not get the memo?” She stood, and passed her hand up and down her front. “This ain’t no athlete’s body anymore.” Her ears buzzed. Her heart pounded. Anger, lust, and confusion almost made her cry. She decided to go with anger. “I am officially not interested.”
“You will be, once you hear more about it.”
“Cocky much?”
“Yes, I am.” His smile widened.
Kayla had never in her young life felt more like melting. She found herself unable to resist matching his grin. “So, this is what you do, then? Get a girl drunk, hot and bothered, and then dump her at her doorstep, left to her own devices?” She tried to cock one hip, but she was too drunk, so she settled for crossing her arms and glaring at him.
His lips twitched. “You got some devices up there, Makayla?” He waggled his eyebrows.
She blew out a breath. “You know what I mean, perv.”
He sighed and his shoulders slumped. “You are so…”
She punched his arm, or tried to, and missed. “I know I’m hot ‘n sexy. That’s why I don’t get why you’re just leaving me here, you know, alone, and…”
“Un-fucked?”
“Yeah. That. Gosh, you’re a poet on top of everything else? What is a girl to do?”
He shrugged and slipped his arms into his coat.
Kayla tried not to imagine him naked. She failed.
J.D. pulled his phone from his pocket. “I need to call my driver.” He poked at the phone screen a few seconds, then stared straight at her. “I think you should come work for me.”
Her vision narrowed. Her legs felt wobbly. She leaned against the door, hoping not to let on that she needed to close her eyes, just for a second. “And what happened to me being the star of your next exposé?”
“It’s not an exposé. It’s a documentary about how women work just as hard if not harder at sports until they run out opportunities, usually when they’re at their peak.” He pressed his lips together, his expression suddenly pensive.
“But now you want me to … work for you? Doing what, pray tell, Mr. Boss Man? I have exactly zero experience with—”
He held up a hand. “Just … think about it, okay?”
“I don’t get you, Jon David.” But she wanted to get him. Real bad. She bit back a giggle at how much she wanted to get to know him right now.
“I’m a cypher.” He touched his lips to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips, just long enough to leave her wanting more.
“You’re a tease, is what you are.”
He smiled and ran the back of his fingers down her cheek.
“Hold up a sec. If I’m working for you, we can’t… I mean we won’t be able to… Unless you’re some kind of creepy boss, always calling in one or more of your harem to service you in your fancy office.”
“I don’t do that. Any more than I’m going to go upstairs with you right now. It’s not right. And while I am very much interested…” He kissed her again, pressing her hard against the door and shocking her with his intensity before he broke away, his hands propped above her head. “I won’t. Because contrary to what some people think, I’m kind of a nice guy.”
“Then why…”
He touched her lips again. “No more talking. Go on, get upstairs and drink some water.” He grabbed her ass.
She grinned and wiggled, thinking maybe he’d changed his mind, but he was just reaching for her phone.
“Like I said—bossy, and a big fat tease.” She pouted and watched while he programmed his number into her janky smart phone, complete with spider-webbed busted screen.
He slipped it into her back pocket again, letting his hand linger along her hip a few seconds.
“You’re sure you want to leave?” She ran her hand down his chest. But before she could touch him anywhere else, he took her hand, kissed it, and put it back at her side.
“No. Which is why I am leaving. Call me tomorrow.” He opened the door and gave her a tiny shove into the smelly foyer.
“Maybe,” she said, swaying in the gloom, fixated on the deep blue of his eyes.
“Guess I’ll have to settle for that, then.” He waited.
She swayed a bit more. “What?”
“What floor are you on? Do you want me to…?”
“No, no I’m going already. Beat it, Mr. Nice Guy.” She walked away from him and took the stairs backwards, still staring at him.
He didn’t move a muscle, other than the one in his jaw that flexed in a way that made her want to fall over, and not from being drunk.
“Oh, fuck it.”
She heard these words loud and clear, and by the time he’d pounded up the stairs and swept her into his arms again, she was ready.
Chapter Three
It was the same old dream. Grass, goal, cleats, fans, bodies bumping, coaches yelling, teammates screaming. Kayla blinked up at the sky, noting how unbelievably blue it was—like a garish cartoon, over-done, fake. Then the pain hit her. She opened her mouth to scream even as her brain reminded her “it’s the same old dream.”
She sat up too fast, acknowledging the wave of pain overwhelming her brain, which was still swimming in tequila and whatever else she’d insulted it with the night before. “Ow,” she whispered, risking a glance to the other side of the mattress.
“Fuck me running,” J.D. muttered as he rolled off her mattress and got to his feet.
She blushed, recalling that foul mouth and the things he could do with it. She bit her lip to keep from responding, which was probably a good plan since she was ninety-nine percent certain that if she opened her mouth, she’d puke all over the bed. She really didn’t have the energy to deal with that.
She watched him for a few more seconds, taking in the very pleasant view of his backside as he hopped around trying to get his tighty-whities on then looked around with the most hilarious expression of panic. She pointed to the pile of his clothes with the hand she wasn’t using to clutch the sheet up to her neck.
Modesty, thy name is The Embarrassing Morning After.
He pulled his undershirt down his torso before yanking his trousers up.
She was frozen, her mind awash in booze and memories that assaulted her like ping pong balls thrown from a high enough height that they hurt. Her, on her knees. No, him on his. No, both of them, and something about … syrup? She sniffed her arm, shuddering at the keen maple scent. “I may never eat pancakes again,” she said under her breath.
Once she decided to risk gravity, Kayla swung her legs around so her feet met the floor. She shut her eyes, but that made the universe conduct an alarming reverse spin, something her dad, the physics teacher, would insist impossible. Right now, she’d bet him a dollar on it, oh yes she would.
When she figured out that the low half-groan, half wounded animal-keening sound was coming from her, she reached out a hand for the stack of milk crates that served as her bedside table. A large, newly familiar hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Whoa, oh … move!” She shoved the now not-so-naked guy aside and made it, barely, to the toilet. After losing the contents of her stomach’s entire memory, she sat praying for death a few minutes. Once she determined she’d live, she brushed her teeth and splashed water onto her face, then peeked into the messy room.
J.D. was something akin to catnip, and she was already clamoring for another hit. But her sad-sack mattress was rumpled and empty. She pushed the door farther, confused when it didn’t hit the wall but whacked into something else hard and immovable.
“Holy shit! Mother fucker! Ow!” Mr. Hot Stuff was now prancing around the room, dressed in his fancy trousers and undershirt, one sock on, hand to his forehead where she’d clocked him with the door. “Jesus Christ, woman.” He flopped into her one chair before she could stop him.
“Oh, uh … hey … probably shouldn’t sit there…”
It was only a cheap camp chair. What did he expect?
She stared him, glaring up at her from the floor in the midst of ripped canvas and broken metal, a knot rising on his forehead from the door contact, and started giggling. She tried to stop. Honestly, she did. But it was like bubbles rising and needing to go somewhere, so they came out of her in the form of loud, inappropriate laughter. She fell onto the mattress, smelling sex and sweat and all the aromas she didn’t want to get used to—like his skin, his hair, even his breath.
That put a sock in the laughter. She sat up, tugging her robe around her and pulling a scarf on her hair, attempting to regain some shred of dignity.
He was up again, his back to her as he buttoned his shirt, then stuffed his cufflinks into his pockets and slid his belt through trouser loops.
“So, see ya ‘round I guess, huh?” She got up and went to her closet so she could pretend to have someplace to go, something to do that didn’t involve watching the Today show and eating sugary cereal until noon. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to ignore him. After a few super awkward minutes of near silence, she glanced over her shoulder, keeping her I-am-so-busy-you-really-ought-to-leave face firmly in place.
He stood, hands shoved into his pockets, hair all messy like a little kid’s, his head tilted as if he were pondering a deep, dark question instead of ogling her ass.
She turned away from him and flipped through her meager clothing options. She’d spent so many years in nothing but soccer gear or baggy sweats as she slouched to class and practice and back, she’d never really done what others would call having much in the way of nice things to wear. Her college teammates had always pitched in to let her borrow from them for parties, since her own parents couldn’t be counted on for much besides the basics. Embarrassed by the paltry pickings, she slammed the door shut behind her. “Go on. You had your fun. Go be the boss or whatever.”
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked around her space, which forced Kayla to view it all through his eyes—the lumpy floor mattress, the pilfered milk crates serving time as tables and book shelves, the crusted-over tea cups, the panties and bras spilling out of the busted dresser drawer, the filthy blinds over the windows.
“What? My mess didn’t bother you last night. Beat it, Mr. Clean. I’m over you.” She swallowed the tears. Typical. The guy only wanted between her legs. How dare he judge her living space. Not everybody could get rich playing the sport they loved. Only the ones with the cock and balls. She’d learned that lesson already. She didn’t need this guy reminding her of it.
A wash of dusty old fury filled her chest. She’d been a damn good athlete. A Division one, full scholarship starter for a major women’s soccer program and, later, a member of a pro team, plus a back-up for the national team. Until all of that had come to a screeching halt. Her non-soccer, grown-up job options were limited, thanks to her being a marginal student, semi-pro partier, in college. Since her soccer career-ending accident, she’d been stuck here, in this place, inhabiting this messy, embarrassing, stupid life.
Before that, she’d always been driven by the desire to be the best, to beat every teammate at every beep test, every sprint. To start every damn game and save the majority of the goals in her position as left defensive back. She’d been wired that way since birth. She got off on competition. Having athletic brothers had only egged her on, growing up in her middle-class home in Ann Arbor. She’d sworn she could get high off the adrenaline of a game day. Ever since she’d hit the double jackpot of a busted knee and a cheating boyfriend-with-fiancé-potential, she’d been living without it—without the one thing that had kept her going for the past twenty-five years.
At that moment, staring at Mr. Hot Shot NFL-turned-TV-mogul, the truth blindsided her, brought actual tears to her eyes. She’d lost her reason for liv
ing, and along with it, her desire to succeed. It had been taken from her, in the blink of a badly placed foot on a crappy turf field.
Bottom line was, she’d worked just as hard as this dick-cheese had. Big difference: when she graduated with barely a C-average she hadn’t had any other options but to take the limp deal from the new and improved women’s soccer league and the promise that if she “worked hard and proved herself as a back-up” she “might” be allowed to travel with the national team.
As if she wouldn’t work as hard as she possibly could. As if she hadn’t spent the bulk of her life working hard for that very opportunity. Fat lot of good that had done her.
She blinked. She’d been staring at him, her mind awash with the ugly revelation about herself for longer than was probably considered necessary, or normal. Anger ruled. So once again, she went with it.
“Stop staring at me,” she blurted out, covering for her own rudeness.
“Do you need a job?” he asked.
“Not from you, Sugar Daddy. No fucking way,” she claimed, shocked and yet not at the same time. J.D. was pretty obviously one of those guys—the kind who could make you sing high opera between the sheets but who also felt compelled to manage her life outside of it. While a small part of her yearned for something just like him, a bigger part, the louder part, rejected it outright.
He blew out a breath, looked at the ceiling, then leveled that piercing blue gaze at her again. “You’re a kind of a pain in the ass,” he said, as if stating something innocuous about the weather.
“Oh yeah?” She drew herself up and tightened her threadbare robe around her waist. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
He licked his lips while gazing around her shitty bedroom again. Heat rose in her chest, filling her head and making her want to scream. He pulled something out his pocket, glanced at it, then held it out to her.
She recoiled. “That had better not be a credit card. I am not your—”