by Crowe, Liz
J.D. smiled, but it felt weak, fake. He was way off his game. No matter. It would be fine in about an hour. He’d be a limp noodle, and his mind would be blessedly clear.
She handed him a robe. He yanked his tie off and headed for the luxury level bathrooms tucked behind the small bar to one side of his office.
Afterward, J.D. lay in the gloom, a warm towel over his eyes, his body relaxed but his mind still spinning circles around itself, around the one thing in the center of it, around Makayla. He rolled to his side and sat, contemplating the thunderstorm making a light show outside his office windows, and realized that if he was going to do this thing, he had to see her now, tonight. For a guy who rarely gave much thought to the various grand gestures he’d made with various women in his life, right now, he had less than zero ideas on how to impress her, to convince her that he’d not been there for a hook-up, despite how the night had ended.
A random scent memory of syrup made him grin, propelled him up. He dressed and was out of his office.
Chapter Six
It was nearly six o’clock before Kayla felt halfway human again. It took a shower, a bath—during which she almost fell asleep and drowned—half a left-over pizza, and a two-hour nap. She’d never been more grateful to have a night off, even though she could have used the money, like, a lot.
She sat glaring at the over-blown bouquet from J.D., unwilling to acknowledge it. Even after Marlo had yanked the card out from the middle of the thing and read it out loud, then taken a picture and snap chatted it to some of their friends.
She remembered it all now. First standing up in the living room, still mostly dressed as if they couldn’t wait another minute. He’d held her against the wall, a la the most classic romance novel hero moves, kissing her stupid until he yanked down her shorts, unzipped his pants, hiked up both her legs and… Kayla shook her head, willing it out. It couldn’t have been that great, the fucking-standing-up thing. It was awkward and unrealistic. A construct of overheated authors with rich fantasy lives. It was never, ever that … great.
Oh but it was, her eager, now-horny-at-the-thought-of-it mind yammered at her, breathless, misty, eager.
Kayla gulped, tasting it, tasting him all over again, hearing his groans of pleasure, and relishing in how he’d threaded his fingers in her hair, pulling hard as she’d been on her knees in front of him, showing off her blowjob skills. They must have made it to the shower after that, since she’d found a condom circling the drain in there like a drowned snake skin.
She gripped the card, wondering if he’d written it or had the smitten flower sales chick do it, or more likely he had a sexy secretary send out all his thanks-for-the-fuck prezzies.
Unfair, her inner self berated. You don’t really know him at all.
“Oh yeah, I do,” Kayla said out loud to the empty room. “I know everything about him.” She flicked his stupid card that she didn’t believe for a minute he’d written onto the scarred kitchen counter. Her head felt echo-y and her mouth stuffed with cotton balls.
She put a hand on her chest, angry at how fast her heart was racing. She toed open the garbage bin to toss the card in, and was already pondering how she’d dismantle the obnoxious display of foliage. She’d take the bouquets into the bar to dress up the tables the next day. “Over it,” she said. She liked how that sounded. “I am over it,” she repeated, smiling and unable to ignore how chapped her lips were, after her extra-curriculars the night before.
Her stomach grumbled, alerting her to the fact that she’d moved on to the slutty cheeseburger-craving stage of this particular hangover. She grabbed her bag and dumped it out onto the table, pawing around for the five-dollar bill she thought she’d kept after paying rent, utilities, and groceries. That froze her in her tracks again, the fiver clutched in one sweaty fist. Dear Lord, I will never never buy spray whipped cream again. I promise. What had I been thinking?
Thunder rumbled as she headed for the closet to grab sandals, proud of herself for not falling for this guy like some kind of a sap. Her sap days were over, yessireebob. She refused to be susceptible for any of his … what? His talented, horse-hung awesomeness and perfection? His obnoxious thanks-for-the-sticky-fuck flowers?
Her phone with its sad, cracked glass face buzzed from the vicinity of the couch where she’d been camping out for the last few hours. She quashed the urge to race for it and slid her feet into the well-worn Birks—ugly shoes, but she was in an ugly mood. It was probably only Marlo, checking up, in her mother-hen way. That girl was gonna make a great helicopter parent, Kayla thought, as she tucked the money in her shorts pocket and wondered if they had a working umbrella anywhere.
The heavens opened up about two seconds after she opened the heavy front door of the building. She stood, blinded by a quick flash of lightning, deafened by the sort of thunder clap that made her flinch in spite of herself, but she was determined to seek out and find that damn cheeseburger now that she’d set this in motion. She wasn’t about to get any dryer so she might as well…
“Excuse me,” she muttered, when a tall, firm wall of human blocked her path. The tantalizing aroma of charred cow flesh and fries cooked in months old grease hit her nose. Her mouth watered. She swiped at her eyes, trying to see through the deluge.
“Hey.”
She shivered all over at that sound of that voice—the one belonging to the now not so naked Jon David Baxter. Her hero. Her knight in shining armor. Her very own sexy CEO. He stood there, grinning like a dork in his dark, soaked suit and his bright white dripping wet dress shirt, holding an umbrella, not over his fool head but over a greasy white bag.
Kayla stepped back, unwilling to go here even as her mind caved and her stomach growled louder than the thunder. “You shouldn’t have come back,” she yelled over Mother Nature’s noise. “I don’t like you.”
“Huh, what a coincidence. I don’t like me either,” he said. He had the umbrella over her head, and the bag was thrust into her hands before he kissed her. It was slow this time, easy, perfect, his lips caressing hers in way that was so clichéd it made her want to laugh. The rain pounded on the umbrella, sheathing them in an envelope of dry air in front of the door.
“Oh, all right, come in already,” she said, breaking the kiss. “But only if you promise to kiss me some more, just like that.”
His grin made her knees weak and her scalp tingle and all the purple-prosed nonsense she’d spent years dismissing as utter claptrap. Reactions meant for women not her. Until now.
“Nope. Sorry. I’m not giving into your siren call again. I’ve got my big boy pants on today.”
She grinned. “Yeah. You’re a big boy all right.” She bit his lip.
“Cut it out, already. I’m just bringing you hangover recovery food and leaving. Period. End of story. No more or less. Oh … Jesus.”
“You need to stop talking,” she whispered, as she unbuttoned his trousers and slid her hand inside.
“No. Listen,” he said, before handing her the umbrella, re-fastening his pants, and stepping into the downpour. “We need to talk.”
“Talking is boring,” she insisted, watching him as he tilted his face up to the deluge, then back at her. “You’re too hot for your own damn good. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”
He smiled and shook his head, spraying her with the rain that had soaked him in the past few seconds.
“Hey!”
“I’m gonna go now, Makayla, but my assistant expects to hear from you tomorrow morning.” He stuck his hand under the umbrella.
She stared at him, still dazed from the kiss.
“Call my assistant in the morning and get something set up. Tell Marlo to come too, dressed for a job interview. I hear she’s pretty damn amazing at social media.”
“How in the hell do you know that?”
“I’m a cypher, remember? Not to mention a nice guy. Plus, I’m really good at finding things out about people.” He ducked under the umbrella, rain sluicing down his face.
; She touched his cheek, amazed, shocked, and willing to bet she was still asleep on the couch and dreaming.
He kissed her again, lifting her up off her feet and squashing the bag of food between them. “Damn, you are good at that,” he said, after breaking their contact.
She grinned. “You are too, if you must know. But don’t go getting a big head over it.” She touched his crotch, sensing how much he wanted her deep in her gut.
“Too late for that.” He stepped into the driving rain.
“Hey, take this,” she said, holding out the umbrella, her vision blurry when the rain hit her face.
“No, I can use the cold shower. Keep it. Make the appointment. I’ll see you … soon.” He waved and jogged away, disappearing into the rain within seconds.
“I am losing my damn mind,” Kayla said out loud, watching him go from under the umbrella again. “Losing it.” She tucked the card into her front pocket before heading inside, her mouth watering at the smell of the burger and fries he’d brought her.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, Kayla, hurry up!”
She stared at herself in the cracked bathroom mirror, ignoring Marlo’s incessant door banging and shrieking. She leaned close to the mirror and touched her lips, recalling J.D.’s touch and kiss as if he’d just been indulging her. Not playing his Mr. Nice Guy thing and leaving her alone for the night. Him being a nice guy was the one thing she didn’t want. It turned him into something real, an actual possibility, as opposed to a cardboard cutout playboy asshole. It made him someone she could like, or someday even love. And that was not going to happen. No way. No how.
“I can’t be late. Come on already. Open the damn door!”
Kayla tugged the night silk scarf off her hair, grinning at the mind-of-its-own way that it sprung free, framing her face with a riot of corkscrew, more than a little frizzy, curls. After tucking the scarf away in a drawer and giving herself a mental high-five for heeding her mother’s ongoing reminder about its importance, she yanked the door wide to greet her pissed-off roomie. “Somebody needs to get laid,” she said, flicking her fingers at Marlo as she flounced past.
“Somebody needs to get a day job,” Marlo reminded her helpfully, before sticking her tongue out at her and slamming the door in her face.
Kayla stretched, grinning like a fool into the morning sunlight attempting to break through the dirt coating the hall window.
All she needed or wanted in the world at that moment was to dive back under the sheets with J.D. The very fact that she could acknowledge that thought, much less accept it as a home truth made her nervous and antsy.
“Lover boy all gone?” Marlo’s voice cut through her fog of regret. She threw an apple and granola bar in her bag before snagging half the hot water for her coffee press.
“That was for my tea,” Kayla said, not really caring. “And he wasn’t here last night, if you must know.”
Marlo picked up the DSN business card she’d dropped on the table and whistled.
“Don’t even start,” Kayla said.
“You know what they say about this place, don’t you?”
“Gee, no. But let me guess—J.D. Baxter has a penthouse suite office and all the pretty ladies he hires to staff his so-called female-run sports network have to give him blowjobs before they get their microphones?” Kayla knew how whiney she sounded but she couldn’t stop herself.
“No, actually. The opposite. He’s one of the smartest station owners out there. He’s hired the best women in the business, paying them what they’re worth, encouraging their creativity, but not screwing around with any of them, like you might think he would.” She leaned against the kitchen counter, blowing on her coffee.
Kayla waved her hand, as if dismissing the whole topic, but was so eager for more details she could hardly contain herself.
“I do know he’s divorced,” Marlo continued. “A young marriage from his early days in the NFL. And he spent plenty of time after the divorce as the league’s gigolo, running through as many women as he could manage. But now…” She shrugged and sipped.
Kayla waited, holding her breath, willing the woman to tell her more so she wouldn’t have to ask.
“They’re getting more exclusive contracts to broadcast events, thanks to his connections and the kick-ass staff he hired. But they’ve also run some pretty revealing documentaries. About shithead men in sports. I know they’re working on one comparing soccer—”
Kayla jumped up to interrupt her, unwilling to accept that he might have had ulterior motives for picking her up the other night and rocking her tiny world. She knew he’d come to meet her that fateful first night. He’d probably planned to seduce her, so she’d agree to his stupid docu-drama-whatever.
“Who cares? I’m going for a run.” Her nerves felt shredded, raw, and exposed. She needed to purge Mr. Wonderful. Now. Considering she’d likely never see him again anyway, it seemed like a prudent course of action.
Marlo flicked the card back on the rickety table. “You are sometimes the most annoying, stubborn little bitch.”
“Yeah? Well, if you recall, I am rebounding. My poor heart is broken.”
“That was two years ago. You’re over it. And if a roll in the hay with J.D. Baxter didn’t accomplish that, then you’re more certifiable than I thought.” Marlo draped her bag across her chest, adjusting it so it wouldn’t flap around as she biked to her job at some advertising company. On top of her job at the bar, she worked twenty hours there, and something like another fifty at home, managing the social media accounts for companies that ranged from home inspectors and realtors to office supply stores.
They’d gotten drunk on cheap box wine one night and Kayla had posted a few things for her, being helpful. Marlo had changed all the passwords after swearing that if Kayla got her fired, she’d kick her out onto the street where she belonged. Marlo was sensitive that way.
“I close tonight,” Kayla called as Marlo headed for the door. “You?”
“Yeah, me too. I’ll see you there.”
Kayla watched her friend from the dingy window as she hiked her leg over the bike seat and peddled away into the steamy hot morning.
The run was brutal, and long—exactly the way Kayla liked them. As she powered through the sixth mile, knowing she would have to turn around and head back soon or risk heat stroke, Mr. Perfect began fading from her mind.
Until, of course, she thought about how well he kissed, which made her stumble.
She’d made it as far as Campus Martius Park before she flopped onto a bench, gasping and alarmed that her heart rate was so high. The water in her last bottle was piss-warm, but she drank it anyway, then poured the dregs over her head. “Good God,” she muttered, leaning back, her arms spread wide on the back of the bench, her face tilted up to the scorching sun. “Don’t tell me global warming isn’t a thing.”
She glanced to her right and saw the towering letters DSN on one of the newly renovated, vintage downtown buildings. She understood his type. She’d dated it before, including her last disastrous dive into a relationship with a semi-star MLS prima donna. She’d even made the grievous error of falling deeply in love with it. Thought it loved her back. And it had screwed her six ways to Sunday, as her brain helpfully reminded her.
She wasn’t that girl. Not anymore. She’d made a solemn vow. And it would take someone a lot more interesting than J.D. Baxter to break it.
Maybe.
He was pretty damn interesting.
She shook her head.
Her mind, which she’d kept a firm grip on in this regard, began fluttering around the possibilities. If she agreed to tell her story, to let him show it to his ever-increasing audience, maybe she’d get another chance. Maybe some coach would see it, remember her in her glory days and offer her the opportunity to go back to the one thing she’d loved since she’d discovered it as a little girl—playing soccer. Hell, maybe she could even ditch the short shorts waitressing gig. She shook her head again, so hard sweat flew of
f her hair, peppering her bare shoulders.
No, Kayla. That’s not what will happen. You’re washed up, out of shape, too old. The game’s moved on without you and you know it.
She bit her lip and forced herself not to cry yet again at the sick U-turn her carefully planned life had taken. In a heartbeat, an eye-blink, the wrong placement of her cleat on turf had ruined everything.
Enough. Get over it. Get over him. Get over your lame fantasy about a come-back.
She got up and stumbled, cursing like a sailor the whole time. It was too hot. She’d run too far. She was going to pay for trying to purge Mr. Hot Stuff with a long run.
She turned and ran full tilt in the opposite direction, her head pounding and her heart like a stone weight in her chest. But she was already ready to admit that she was starting to think in terms of her life as “before” and “after” J.D. Baxter.
Chapter Eight
Kayla flinched when Slimy Manager Brad flicked her butt with his bar towel a few hours into her shift. “I can sue you for that, you know.”
He grinned.
She rolled her eyes at the bartender who was currently slopping beers onto her tray and flipped Brad off once his back was turned. “Hey, dude. Pay attention.”
“Sorry, Kayla, in the weeds,” he muttered, before snatching the next ticket off the printer.
She sighed and wiped the worst of the spills, glanced at her list, then smacked the bar. “Appletini. You forgot.”
He made up the lurid green drink quickly and handed it over. The restaurant was mobbed both inside and out. One of the servers had called in sick so they were all in the weeds and damn early on a weeknight. As she shoved her way past the crowd at the bar, she spotted him about a split second before he saw her. The way he stared when he caught her gaze made her warm from the inside out.
He lifted his chin, but the way he glanced to his side made her freeze in her tracks. Scalp tingling in a way she hadn’t experienced since her last debacle of a relationship, she eased to her right, keeping a gaggle of drunk men between her and the table where he was sitting. Face so hot she was afraid it might be throwing off sparks, she ducked behind a foursome being led to their table.