Oh, what fresh hell is this? Veronica leveled an arch smile at Chance and braced herself.
“You corrupting my ex?” he said, drawing Heather’s hand to his lips. Always the man with the moves. He wore a pair of tinted glasses to complement his white designer ensemble.
“Trying to.” Heather’s words, delivered in a monotone, were sassy and direct.
“Heather, this is my ex-husband, Chance. Chance, meet my assistant, Heather Saint.” Veronica then asked him, “And who are you here with?”
“The usual suspects,” he said, referring to his entourage of friends, whose combined net worth could buy Las Vegas. As was commonly the case, he and his group were likely painting Sin City in a procession of luxury vehicles, with hulking bodyguards and paparazzi struggling to keep up. He took her hands. “Dance with me. Can’t let a good song go to waste.”
The DJ was digging up hits of the past, and the song shaking up the dance floor now was one of her favorites. Confetti burst from overhead, spiraling over the crush. It dotted people’s hair, stuck to their heated skin, littered the dance floor.
Veronica brushed the shimmering bits from her shoulders. “We need time way from each other, Chance.”
“Why do we need that? I crossed your path and spoke out of respect.”
“Thanks. But as for the dance? C’mon, seriously?”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want one dance to get in the way of you fucking some stranger in the club. So, who is he?” Chance put his arms out, showing off his wingspan, and turned. As he did, people around them shuffled backward to give him the space he demanded.
“Chance, there isn’t anyone—”
“You got on my case about honesty. Don’t be a hypocrite now. Just point out the man who did this.” Chance yanked her arm and stared at the scrawling signature on her skin. When she paused—torn between her initial instinct to tell him to take his sense of entitlement to hell and her second instinct to simply ignore him—Chance whipped around to her assistant. “Know who did this?”
Heather spied the ink, and her eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. But she apparently had no qualms about lying. “Nope.”
“Is this a tat, Veronica?”
“No.” Veronica shook free, thinking quickly of how to diffuse the situation with hundreds watching. “Got a table, Chance? If talking like civilized adults is okay with you, then let’s do it there.”
Chance led the way, and when his friends relinquished the table to offer the most privacy anyone could get at the Marquee, she asked, “Where’s this possessiveness coming from? You grabbed me. Don’t touch me like that ever again.”
He exhaled, putting his hands together and bowing his head. “All right. I meant no disrespect.”
“Getting in my face, acting like you own me, seems pretty disrespectful. Life isn’t a reality TV show, Chance, and it’d be productive for us both if you refrain from starting drama in the middle of a club.”
“What if I wanted you back?”
That was laughable, considering they both knew he didn’t. “You had me, Chance, and got tired of me. We didn’t fight. We didn’t compete against each other. We were friends.”
“Friendship’s not enough to make a marriage stick.”
“Nothing I gave you was enough. I tried to be everything you wanted, without ever asking you to change for me. But that doesn’t even matter anymore. It’s better this way—to be apart. Now that I’ve accepted that, the hurt can stop. Because I don’t want this. I want something more.”
Heather sidled up to the table with a probing “Everything okay?”
“Just apologizing to my wife,” Chance said.
“Ex-wife,” Veronica corrected. “Apologize to Heather. You were rude.”
Chance gave Veronica a final repentant look before he addressed her assistant. “Forgive me. Veronica can put you in touch with my secretary. She’ll set you up with two tickets to Fight Night. Car and drinks, too.” Then he left them alone at the table.
Veronica should’ve been relieved at his absence, but she felt unsettled. Wary. Confused. “That was strange. In his defense, though, he never had a shitty temperament when we were married. Always a jokester.”
“He certainly strives to leave an impression. Know how much those tickets are worth? And am I right to assume that by ‘car,’ he means limo?”
“Go all out or don’t go at all should be his motto. That offer is from him to you, Heather, so don’t you dare feel weird about accepting it.”
“Only if you’re sure it’s cool.”
“Seriously, it’s cool.”
“Thanks.” Heather grinned. “My boyfriend loves boxing more than he loves me, computers and his eighteen-year-old dog combined. He wouldn’t want me to pass this up.”
Boyfriend? “You’re still with the IT guy? I thought you might’ve broken up. So why the man-hunting?”
Heather was toying with her glow bracelet, but now she stilled. “For you.”
“You were considering Fu Manchu for me?”
“I thought you could use a night out. You’re so lone—”
“For the love of all that’s good and holy, don’t say ‘lonely.’ I’m not lonely. I’m busy, with responsibilities. With work, in fact!” Veronica had to consciously lower her voice, but humiliation rattled her. If she’d only known that this night of barhopping and man-hunting was just Heather’s charity, then…what?
Her thoughts scrolled back to the Luxor and being with Simon. His fingers had felt so good on her, and if she hadn’t had more pressing priorities keeping her in line, she might’ve simply let go.
And then where would she be? Chances were, she’d be with him. Which didn’t sound like an altogether awful thing.
“I’ve offended you. Sorry, Veronica.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” she said with a crispness that wasn’t totally directed at Heather. Her assistant hadn’t meant any harm, and she wasn’t at the root of the turmoil that was festering within Veronica.
Change was in the air—big-time—and it had nothing to do with the seasons.
“The work that needs to be taken care of? I can help.”
“Thanks, but no.” Veronica swept up her purse, no longer in a clubbing mood. “I can do it alone.”
◆◆◆
Chance took to the Strip. He’d indulge in a game of blackjack, a gourmet meal and, if the mood struck him, a sexy woman. But he was distracted by the ache for peace and quiet—the kind he could only get enclosed in his tinted-window car with his phone off.
Chance wore his every flaw with pride. Why shouldn’t he? He’d earned the right to luxury, ruthlessness, and self-indulgence. The years of learning what it took to survive in the insincere—no, cutthroat—entertainment world had sculpted him. He was arrogant, off-putting, an unapologetic flirt—he owned all that. Yet he took no pleasure in treating Veronica the way he had in front of an audience.
Insulting her had cornered her to the point that she’d fought back. In spite of the nosedive the night had taken, he’d left the Cosmopolitan with an important piece of information: Veronica was different. Not just in appearance. Those leather pants and that ink covering the inside of her arm like a tattoo had thrown him off, but something else had changed.
I want something more.
She had meant it. What she’d said, the writing on her arm—it was driving him crazy that he’d been unable to make out the signature—was falling into place. A realization slammed him as he swung his car into the parking lot of the low-key bar he went to when he wanted privacy.
Veronica had another man in her life.
As he settled down at his usual table for a late-night brandy, he took out his phone. When the call connected, he was greeted with a groggy curse that might’ve felt threatening if he wasn’t at his boiling point. “Wake the fuck up. We need to get a few things straight,” he returned, unaffected. Another vile oath. “There’s a distinction between respect and politeness. My respect you’ve got with a lifetime g
uarantee. But lately you haven’t exactly been earning the privilege of my politeness. Let’s talk.”
The conversation was brief, terse. At the end of it, he set his phone on the scratched wood table and sat back, finishing his brandy with a hard swallow.
Someone was getting to Veronica. The mere fact that she wouldn’t give him a name bothered him more than it should. Forthcoming, sweet, eager to please—that was his Veronica.
Except…she wasn’t his anymore.
CHAPTER NINE
NFL inquiries. Grueling interviews with a parade of investigators facing him down like a firing squad. Living caught in the grip of being viewed as a criminal. None of it was as brutal as silence. The silence had all but wrecked Simon since his interview over a week ago. At Veronica’s urging, he’d taken a solo road trip to Burbank, California, to tape an exclusive talk show interview. Veronica had put him in direct contact with the host, advising that he get himself in front of a sympathetic audience. What he would say, what facets of himself he would share with the audience, was solely up to him.
“This is your game changer,” Veronica had insisted. “It’s your play. Run it.”
Simon had walked onto the set with every intention of being conversational and engaging—but even he knew that he’d come off as reticent and self-justifying. Over and over again, he’d deflected the host’s attempts to unlock his past. She hadn’t been malicious—in fact, she was witty and brash and funny as hell—but her questions had scratched the surface of his childhood and the person he most wanted to shield from his current life. The damage to his career and reputation had already managed to touch his younger sister, even though he never associated himself with Gunner, Oregon.
People in that town remembered him, and Erin talked too much for her own good. Still, she was better off there than with him.
After discussing the ongoing investigation, the host had set aside her note cards, leaned back in her chair, and said, “Simon, last season the league fined you a hundred and fifty grand for punching your own teammate on the sidelines. What the fuck happened?” A gasp had rippled over the audience, and she’d promised cookies to her producers who would scramble to bleep the expletive.
“I sent a pass down the field with precision,” Simon had explained. “I didn’t overthrow the ball, but it looked that way because the receiver intentionally hesitated at a critical moment. I wasn’t happy about it, he bumped me with his shoulder and I hit him. Gut reaction. I could’ve—probably should’ve—walked away, but I felt something was off. And I was right. Watch the clip again, listen closely to the audio and you’ll hear something new. After I threw the punch and we were both being hauled to the tunnel, the receiver pointed to his jaw and said to Luca Tarantino, ‘This is going to be extra.’”
After that, the dynamic of the interview had shifted, and he’d known that the truth had finally begun to hit home.
In the eight days that followed, he’d been met with nothing but silence. No word from his attorney, because nothing had changed. No update from his agent, either. Not even a text from Veronica, who was likely waiting for the episode to air, waiting to see for herself whether he’d pissed on the opportunity she’d offered.
The stretch of quiet smothered him with a profound sense of aloneness. All of the unknowns surfaced—as did the sad reality that in this uncertain darkness he had no one but himself to count on.
He didn’t know if working with Veronica Greer in this last-ditch effort would help…didn’t know if she’d offer up a pretty smile and walk away if the damage to his professional future proved too deep. Hell, he didn’t know what she’d do if her plan to manipulate him into the hearts of the press and the public actually worked. Would she just congratulate herself on a pet project well done and walk away anyway?
Simon hated that the thought of her marching out of his life disturbed him. He couldn’t stand that she was beginning to get to him on a level that was deeper than he wanted to recognize. He detested that eight days of silence between them could weaken him to the point that he didn’t even want to find a random woman to distract him.
Then, once the episode had aired, she’d called him. And he’d lost his damn mind.
He’d just returned from the woodworking shed on his six-acre property. Exhausted, sweaty, and ready to call it a night, he’d half listened to his voice mail messages until he’d heard her voice—all honey and spice.
“Saw the interview,” she’d said. “Can’t get into it now, but I do have a couple of suggestions. I’ll be admiring art all night at Great Exhibitions on the Strip, in case you’re a glutton for my nitpicking.”
His mind had stayed on Veronica as he’d let the hot shower spray beat down on him. Staring through the water and steam, he’d worked the tension from his hot, hard flesh, imagining what they could do and be together if only it made sense. They each had every reason to seek someone without baggage and trouble. But maybe he couldn’t quit surrounding himself with trouble, after all. And maybe she was drawn to it more than she wanted to accept.
Simon had been even more in tune with her when he’d arrived at Great Exhibitions, where he’d had absolutely no problem locating her. Wrapped tight in a short dress and pointy-toed shoes that could probably puncture a man’s foot straight through, she was more fascinating than any painting or sculpture on display.
Once their eyes met, he’d known he would touch her. He’d followed her into a room that was vacant and dark, except for the filmy city lights penetrating the domed ceiling. Framed pieces of what he was pretty sure was impressionist art had lined the walls. White sheets had been draped over sculptures and more paintings, and the air smelled distinctly of clay and chemicals.
“It’s been just hours since the show aired,” Veronica had said, hitching her purse strap over her shoulder, “and already networks—local and national—are getting swept up in the ripple effect. You handled yourself well, acted like a gentleman. I only suggest that if another golden nugget like this comes your way, you show the world that you weren’t some lost boy who happened upon professional football. If your sister decides to cooperate with the press—”
“She won’t.”
“God, Simon. For such a hot-tempered and passionate man, you are unbelievably cold when it comes to your family.” Even though she’d spoken softly, her words had seemed to echo through him. “Don’t you even miss her?”
He’d given her a drawn-out beat of silence, and it’d felt briefly relieving to pass on that torturous feeling to someone else.
“Whatever,” she’d finally whispered when he reached for the door. There was the musical tattoo of her heels on the floor as she’d rushed up to him. “Then I have one last suggestion for you.”
“What?”
Veronica slipped into the space between his body and the exit, blocking him. “Miss me.”
He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t get drawn into touching her, or being the first to make contact tonight. “Veronica, I miss you in ways a good girl like you might not want to hear.”
“I may be small, but I’m not fragile or afraid. Words are only words. They don’t shock me.”
“Which is what you want—to be shocked.” Simon had betrayed himself by touching her anyway, lifting her wrists between their bodies. “I miss you when I’m fucking my fist and I wish your hands were on me instead. But those are only words, right?”
He’d guided her hands—not to his body, but her own. Cupping Veronica’s palms over her breasts, urging her to squeeze her flesh and moan in answer to the pressure, he’d muttered, “Miss me, Veronica. Imagine every explicit, dirty move I can make on your body, and know that I can take it further.”
In unspoken invitation, she had parted her legs, and he’d stepped between them, bringing his knee forward. All it had taken was a bend of her legs before she’d straddled him. Her eyes fixed on his, she’d ridden him, rocking herself against him as he worked her hands on her breasts.
“Know that you and I are greedy, s
elfish people, and fucking won’t be enough. Then realize that I’m not within reach, and maybe—maybe, Veronica—you’ll understand my hell.”
Veronica’s orgasm had her writhing, trying to back away from the sensation as she bit down on her lip to stifle a moan. In answer he’d maintained contact, had pressed his knee against her pussy, and she’d cried out his name in a voice that had sent a new degree of want unfurling through him.
But, satisfied that she’d gotten a taste of the fire they could ignite in each other, he’d released her hands, moved her aside, and left the gallery.
She had made the rules between them, and it was up to her to break them.
Now, not even forty-eight hours later, as Simon and his legal team wrapped up a videoconference with ESPN, he regretted that she wasn’t with him. This morning the NFL had finally issued an official statement confirming that he was no longer under investigation for being on the take. Since his talk show interview, web clips of the in-game misconduct incident had seen a substantial boost in views. ESPN had gotten hold of his attorneys this morning, and by sundown he’d found himself besieged with interview requests.
In the polished lobby of Washington, Yozeman & Birch, while Simon waited for the building’s valet to bring his car, he checked his phone. Two text messages. One from his sister, Erin.
I ALWAYS HAD FAITH IN YOU. GET IN TOUCH. XOXO.
And one from Veronica.
CONGRATS. THE LEAGUE GOT OFF ITS ASS. IT’S NOT OVER YET. ONWARD.
Simon didn’t respond to either message. As Veronica reminded him, the war wasn’t over. All he’d done was establish that he hadn’t been a dirty player. Yet the media still buzzed with speculation that his quarterback skills had gone to hell, and his reputation was a long way from repaired. Especially since it hadn’t been golden to begin with.
That had been his own doing. He’d swaggered into the NFL with a chip on his shoulder and taken for granted the privileged lifestyle football had lent him. He hadn’t let himself cope with leaving Oregon and losing both parents on his way to success. All that change might’ve made him crazy. Pretending not to be affected, as if nothing could get to the heart of him, had gotten him through. But a broken heart could overrule a rational mind any day.
The Rush_The End Game Series Page 10