The Rush_The End Game Series
Page 9
“Perceive it however you wish. It’s going to get you into a football uniform this season. Rethink the company you keep. Want to continue living it up with your hordes of friends, racking up models and actresses and groupies? Be more discreet about it.”
Even before he was released from the Villains, he’d grown weary of the one-night stand routine. The women were different, but the situations always seemed the same.
The last woman he’d fucked who wasn’t motivated by money and status, who’d proven to be a legitimate friend, was Samantha. Sex with Samantha came with more complications than benefits, and for the sake of their sanity, he’d drawn the line weeks ago. Regardless, it riled him up to have someone give him dating directions. Especially when she was the same woman who’d hijacked his dreams two nights in a row.
“The women I see aren’t anyone’s damn business, Veronica.”
“They are when you’re famous. Your talent made you famous, even if being tracked by paparazzi and criticized by ESPN analysts isn’t what you signed up for when you entered this league. I understand that more than you might believe, Simon, and I’ve come to accept that my life isn’t my own anymore. And this is coming from a GM, someone behind the scenes who’s not front and center on the field or tied to endorsements.”
Did she resent that her life wasn’t her own anymore? She didn’t seem to. The media worshipped her. She fired people with a smile on her face.
“That’s just part of the biz. My sister Waverly’s as stubborn as they come, loves to do things her way, but even she had to learn that lesson.”
“What about Aly? She’s the publicist in the family. Shouldn’t she be the expert in spinning conversation?” Instead of making herself the subject of it?
“I taught Aly everything she knows. How she uses her knowledge makes sense to only her.” Veronica drummed her shiny black nails on the table before lacing her fingers. “Let’s go back to basics, Simon. You got into LSU with decent grades, some impressive SAT scores and, of course, a canon for an arm. What happened before LSU?”
“Not much,” he said stiffly. “Busted my ass doing what I could to get recruited someplace far from Oregon. LSU and going pro is all that mattered to me.”
“Basics, Simon. Before Baton Rouge. All the time in Oregon, where you were born and raised, is just a blurb in your file.”
“Oregon’s got nothing to do with my career.”
“It has plenty to do with you. Your roots.”
“I’m a farmer’s son. My father was the first to put a football in my hands. He taught me the game, but he meant for my career to revolve around our cherry orchard and carpentry. Using my skills to help others—that’s where Habitat for Humanity came in. That was his path, his father’s. Tradition.”
“Why wasn’t it your path?”
“I didn’t see myself in agriculture or a town that’s so quiet a man can lose his mind. I wanted exactly what New York and Las Vegas gave me—noise, women, fast cars, an open bar at any time of night. More than anything, I wanted to make pro and prove that talent like mine shouldn’t be wasted as some farmer’s hobby.”
“What’d your family think about that?”
“There was a falling out. I started going into the city, hanging with guys who dreamed big about having a shot at the NFL. My abilities raked in a lot of attention. Friends, cold beer, girls, weed. It all started to come so easily. Life was good.”
“It didn’t stay that way, though, Simon. What happened when life stopped being good?”
“My parents said I was turning into a man they didn’t want in their lives. The city was changing me fast. When LSU came knocking, I had a choice—see where football would take me or stay put. Leave, or fall in line. They gave me no leeway. I made my choice.”
Veronica was silent for a long moment, and there was nothing but the pound of music between them. “Who’d you leave behind?”
“Mom. Dad. Younger sister.”
“None of them ever came to a game or talked to you?”
“Just my sister, Erin. Dad died when I was still at LSU.” He’d died before Simon could decide to go home, apologize, and shake hands with the man he’d wanted to be proud of him.
“And never your mother?”
“She watched my games on TV. I never asked her for more than that. Veronica, she died my first year with the Villains.”
“I saw nothing in your file about that.”
“Wasn’t relevant to the game and what I could do for my team in the play-offs. I asked the head coach and Luca Tarantino for leave so I could bury Mom and be there for my sister. They said no. I was told to say a prayer for my mother and play. This was the test to see how committed to the team I was.”
“You played those games. You went to the Super Bowl,” Veronica said softly.
“Yeah. That’s how committed I was. What did that commitment earn me?”
“I’m sorry for you. I—I just find it heartbreaking.”
“I don’t want pity,” he told her.
She pushed her drink to the center of the table. “But to be alone? I can’t imagine not having my family to count on. My parents—they’re my rock.”
“That’s great for you, Veronica. That’s not my life.”
“It’s your past, so it matters. The farm, the carpentry? Habitat for Humanity? These are things you care about. It’s what we need to sell.”
“Sell? As if my family, my history, the secrets of my life that matter most are commodities? No. Make that hell, no. I never agreed to exploit my family. My little sister’s all I have left, she’s safe and sound in Oregon, and I’m not going to drag her down with me. Leave it alone, Veronica.”
“Don’t you want to be humanized to the public? I knew there was more to you than your stats, this scandal and your collection of women.”
“I’m finding it hard to think the public’s entitled to that kind of transparency. Even you’re not an open book—unless it’s true that you get a thrill out of firing people and living as though life’s a game of Minesweeper.”
“Minesweeper?”
“Strategizing, thinking carefully about the next move, always afraid of detonating something.”
Veronica’s eyebrows pulled together. “I prefer goal-oriented,” she snapped. “And for the record, I have never gotten a thrill taking someone’s job away. I didn’t enjoy cutting you from the team. That’s the truth.” She appeared to want to stop talking, stop sharing, but the words surged forward anyway. “Minesweeper? I have a heart. It belongs to my family and friends and Faith House.”
Faith House. He knew that she’d founded the organization, but not that part of her heart belonged to it. “What about the rest of your heart? Is that reserved?”
“There’s nothing left. I have a very full life, Simon.” She then softened her face into a gentle expression that would make a killer photograph. Damn, she was good. “I get zero financial or social gain out of helping you. This is just my advice. Think about it before you reject me.”
“I’m rejecting the suggestion that I ‘sell’ where I come from. I’m not rejecting you…or what goes through my head when I’m with you. Even though the devil knows I should.”
She turned fully toward him, wetting her lips as he reached to stroke the scribble of ink on her arm.
“Make your move, Veronica.”
“I don’t do bad, Simon. Never have. This…what we’re walking into…would be beyond bad.” She shook her head, as though confused. “We can’t expect a real relationship. Villains GM here.”
“I’m not a Villain.”
“Because I released you. Aside from that, we argue about damn near everything. I don’t even know if you like me. Or if I like you. There are lines we shouldn’t cross. Remember rule number three?”
“Uh-huh.” She was leaning in but holding herself in check. It took herculean effort to stop touching her, but he had to let her initiate the next contact. “Is that working out for you?”
“No.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No,” she said again.
His pulse drummed in his ears as she strapped one of those slender, leather-clad legs across his lap. The weight of it settled over his crotch. She dragged her leg back and forth across his lap, quickening her efforts as his cock hardened to concrete.
“Can a man think rationally when a woman touches him like this?” She replaced her leg with her palm. Molding her fingers to his shape, she let her nails scratch his pants. The pressure glided along his shaft, base to tip, again and again. The pleasure was his to take, but she looked caught in fascination.
How far would she take him? How much longer would she tantalize his body and his restraint?
Veronica’s fingers crawled to his fly. A buckle unfastened, a button twisted free, a zipper lowered with a whisper. Eyes on his, she swirled her tongue over her fingertips, and then her skin was on his.
“I’m going to want to finish this, Veronica.”
“Because all you care about right now is how I’m making you feel.” Glancing down longingly at his stiff flesh, she gave another few strokes. “You said you wanted to be in me.”
“Fuck, yes, I do.”
“So get in me.”
Simon guided her head as she slid into position. Pumping into her mouth, he whispered, “I’m not letting you go. Understand that? You’re not going to be free until I fill your sweet little mouth with my come.”
Veronica moaned on his cock, taking it in deeper, eating him slowly.
Watching her move, he said, “Worship this dick.”
She nodded, not letting him go.
God.
Gripping her hard, he rode her until his balls constricted and blinding pleasure ripped through him. Spilling semen into her, he held her in place.
“Forget about Santa, Veronica.”
Another nod.
“You’re on my lap and the only thing you want is my dick in you.”
A moan this time.
“The only man who’s going to take you away is me.”
Veronica resisted him now, and he let her withdraw. “That’s called distraction, Simon, and it’s a dangerous thing.”
Righting his pants was no easy feat. Managing it, he said, “Anything to prove a point, huh? Then show me you can be distracted. Show me I have an effect on you.”
Steadily, carefully, he stroked her from hip to thigh.
“Get your glass. Take a drink,” he advised, his gaze not straying from her as she brought the cocktail to her lips.
“Now what?”
“Stop calculating.” Simon massaged the mound of her pussy, heard the tiny moan she made against her glass. His hand skated over the exact spot where he was craving to bury himself. “Drop the facades. When you’re with me, I want you naked.”
She hesitated, and he had his answer. It wouldn’t happen, not tonight. This wasn’t the time or place, and she wasn’t ready.
But crossing lines, breaking rules, it was inevitable. Lust hunted them. God help them when it caught up.
“This is more than distraction, Veronica. We’re heading for something we can’t take back later.” He let her go, disconnecting himself from her heat. “I’m looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Veronica wanted to lock herself in the lounge’s powder room and interrupt her best friend’s honeymoon so Grace could talk her down. But she had to settle for pressing a wad of cool, damp paper towels to her fevered cheeks and neck. There went her meticulously applied contour, but she didn’t care.
She’d do great to go back into the lounge, pay the tab, and say a friendly good-night to Simon Smith without jumping on him like the horn dog she was. To get so carried away with the possibilities of what his hands, his body, and that voice could do to her was absurd. Veronica Greer didn’t sit in dark corners with off-limits men, or fantasize about dumping a pink bag of sex goodies onto her bed and sharing them with a very off-limits man who had a bad reputation and a wicked mind that she really wanted to get more acquainted with. Because it wasn’t proper.
Proper was strolling down the aisle to Chance Kershaw, who’d looked stellar on paper. Proper was getting all tangled up in polo golden boy Ollie Johan, who had seemed so refreshing compared to the men who were too intimidated by her to even approach her. Proper was letting both Chance and Ollie lead her, when she was more than ready to make her own moves.
Sometimes being proper blew.
That didn’t mean she would throw her sensibilities to the wind for Simon. She lost control, lost herself, when she was with him. Imperfections such as her klutziness, weakness for sweets, and habit of analyzing the actual fuck out of everything glowed like a flicker in a lantern whenever he got too close. Strangely, he hadn’t walked away. In fact, he’d said he was “looking forward” to being with her.
Right. Until he sampled her and then sought out yet another actress or model or sports groupie. Chance had put in years of faithfulness, but eventually even he’d found satisfaction in other women. Ollie had wooed her for weeks before accusing her of driving him out of her life with distrust, and she’d let him go. How long would it take Simon to move on?
She could do the safe thing—spare them both the awkwardness of going too far and regretting it.
Veronica tossed the paper towels in the trash and reentered the lounge to find Simon gone and her shot and cocktail already paid for.
“This note was left for you.” The bartender handed her a folded napkin.
“‘Sir Galahad would never let a lady pay for his tequila, or her own.’”
With a smile, she slipped the note into her purse and left the Luxor. Yes, she could do the safe thing. Or…she could take a risk.
She was itching to shake loose the stress that dug into her. She had hours of contract loophole searching ahead of her, but diluting the potent energy that practically hummed inside her would do her a world of good. What she wanted was to laugh, gossip, dance.
Partying it up at the Marquee Nightclub at the Cosmopolitan with Heather was as good a start as any. On a Saturday night, the line would be ridiculous, and Veronica would have to flirt her way into the Marquee. But getting in to the main floor would be slightly less of a hassle on a Wednesday. It also helped that Heather’s cousin was on security.
The Marquee’s line wrapped around the building. Despite the daytime heat, autumn whispered in the air at night.
Veronica hurried toward the end of the line, knowing she’d regret walking all the way back and tackling the club’s infamous stairs. Midway through the trek, a pair of clean-shaven men who’d recognized her as Joan Greer’s daughter waved her down and offered her a cut.
Careful not to disturb the man in front of them, who was in sagging jeans, smelled like weed, and was swearing viciously into his Bluetooth, she indulged in a few moments of conversation with the men who’d let her jack the line. One was a real estate agent; his partner was a photographer who knew her mother through mutual friends.
“You are retro Joan, but with a little spice,” he praised. “Too damn sexy to be going solo at the Marquee.”
“I’m meeting a friend.” She craned her neck, but the effort was futile. Heather was as difficult to find in this crowd as Waldo on a wall mural.
“Good for you. Not my business to say this, but there are parents out there—who shall remain nameless—who think having single adult children is as terrible as anything.” He gave her a wink, but she’d have to be missing her brain to not know that her own mother was one of those nameless parents.
Not in the mood to wait for hours, Veronica dialed her assistant’s cell number. “Can’t see you, Heather. I swear this line circles the building twice.”
“Come to the door,” Heather sa
id, her voice nearly buried under the crushing bass. “I’m with security.”
Sure enough, when Veronica made her way to the entrance, she saw her assistant squeezed between a pair of men—both with tats and one with a good two feet of beard. All in the space of a few minutes, Heather led her through the dark, sexy interior of the club, scored them free margaritas and glow sticks, passed on a group of men’s offer to relinquish their thousand-dollar bottle-service table and all but dragged Veronica to a prime spot on the dance floor.
“This DJ is insane! What’s better than a badass DJ?” Heather swayed and dipped and gyrated to the music, while Veronica considered the question.
“Hot apple cider.”
“What?” Heather’s eyes narrowed under her straight black bangs, showing downright confusion.
“You asked what’s better,” Veronica said, raising her voice. “There’s an answer. Apple cider, cinnamon sticks, pumpkin pie. Some people get spring fever. I get autumn fever.”
“Oh!” Heather managed to twirl around on the shoulder-to-shoulder dance floor, bumping her playfully. “That’s what it is. I thought you were just crazy-hungry. Was two seconds away from suggesting you let one of those drooling dudes back at the table hook you up with a burger or something. Snap out of it, though, boss. My parents’ new vacation house is in New Hampshire, and trust me, fall is the real thing there. Nothing Vegas can imitate. All the cider and cinnamon in the world won’t change that.”
When Heather was right, she was right. Without dispute, Veronica gave herself up to the music, letting the beat work its way into her bones as she danced—first with a few guys who weren’t obsessed with squeezing her ass, then with Heather, who persistently asked for her thoughts on a slew of men. “What about that guy over there? He’s short, but he’s taller than you.” “Do you think this one’s attractive?” “How do you feel about Fu Manchu mustaches?”
“Not a fan of the Fu Manchu…but, Heather, my opinion doesn’t carry a lot of weight. That’s your potential man candy.”
“‘Man candy’?”
Suddenly, a man burst through the crowd and stood in front of them.