Offense & Defense: A MMF Sports Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Five minutes later I’m sitting next to Cheryl in the conference room still thinking of Brittney.

  Fuck.

  That’s five minutes longer that I’ve ever thought of a girl after sex.

  There’s something going on with her here.

  141

  Brittney

  "Brittney, can you hear me?"

  I hear Walter's voice coming in through my tiny earpiece, which is hidden underneath my long hair. The sound is low, but the quality is good.

  "Loud and clear," I say.

  "Are you at Ethan’s computer?"

  "Yes, but now what? I don't have the password for this machine, you know. It's locked."

  "Okay, I'm going to walk you through this," Walter says. "Are you ready?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess. I don't hear anyone coming, so it's now or never," I say, looking tensely over my shoulder.

  "The first thing you need to do is shut the computer down."

  "What? Why? Doesn't that seem counterproductive to be turning this thing off?"

  "Just trust me, okay?" Walter says. "I know what I'm talking about."

  "Okay, it's off."

  "Good, now reboot it in Safe Mode," Walter instructs. "You need to do this so that you can effectively login as an administrator to the machine."

  "You're speaking another language … but sure," I say. "Okay, done. Now what?"

  "Now, you'll need to reset the password."

  "The password for which account?"

  "For the account that's locked," Walter says. "If we're going to gain access to the Illicit Escape software and plans, we'll need to change the administrator password so that we can unlock it all."

  "Since when did you get so high-tech on me Walter?" I joke.

  "Just here to help, darling. We've got to move quickly."

  "Okay, that's done; now what?" I ask. I'm acutely aware of noise now coming from down the hall and I wait a few extra seconds before making any noise in case anyone walks in. After those moments are up, it seems like the coast is clear, so we resume.

  "And for the record," I say, "I've given this account a password that no one is ever going to fucking crack. I think there's enough letters, numbers, and symbols for it to be its own equation."

  "Nice work," Walter laughs. "Okay, now we'll need to shut this machine off."

  "Again?" I ask.

  "Yes, shut it off and reboot," Walter says. "When you're turning it back on, you need to immediately hold the F8 key."

  "Why is that?" I ask. "Is something about to melt down on me? You'd at least warn me if that was the case, right?"

  "Very funny," Walter says. "No, you need to do this so that you can be taken to an advanced menu."

  "And what exactly am I looking for on that menu?" I ask.

  "You're looking for the advanced boot options."

  "Got it!" I say. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. It already feels like an eternity to just get to this point, and all I want to do is get the hell out of here.

  "Okay, now insert the USB stick and start downloading all of the data from the I.E. folders."

  "It's downloading," I say, clicking them all and pressing the download option. "But it's taking forever Walter! You'd think the connection speeds would be faster in a high-tech company like this. You even said this was one of the most high-tech buildings you'd ever been in." I'm tapping my feet against the floor with nervous energy. I can practically feel the minutes going by, and with every passing minute, the likelihood of someone finding me increases.

  My thoughts go back to what Walter and Simon have both told me separately.

  There’s no stealing bits of data. It’s either steal the physical prototype or steal all the files.

  Because overtime they upgrade the software to fix bugs or whatever, all of the old data becomes useless. They rewrite a whole new operating system. It’s a failsafe to make sure that old data doesn’t get lost or misplaced and a new product reverse engineered.

  It also means I have at most 24 hours to get this to Simon once it finishes downloading.

  If it finishes downloading that is.

  50 percent—75 percent—92 percent—shit, it's stalled on 92 percent.

  "Walter, it's frozen on 92 percent!"

  "Calm down. Give it a minute."

  "We don't have any extra fucking minutes!" Now I'm really stressed. If this data doesn't load—and soon—I'm fucked. I check back at the status bar.

  "Oh good—Walter it's done; it's at 100 percent! I'm ejecting the USB stick; we did it."

  I pop out the USB drive, and it slips out of my fingers and onto the floor. Shit. I look around, trying to find it. Just great. Where the hell is it? I get down on my knees and search for it, and I finally find it, nestled behind the leg of a chair. As soon as I have it in my hands, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  It's Cheryl. Shit.

  "I—uh—I just—"

  Then I hear Walter in my ear. "Tell her you were looking for an earring that you lost; she'll believe that," he says.

  "I was just looking for an earring that I must've dropped," I say.

  Cheryl raises one skeptical eyebrow. "You dropped an earring? Here, in Ethan’s office?”

  "That's right," I say. "Well, I'm not sure if it was in here, per say. It could be somewhere else, but I just wanted to make sure."

  "And why would it be in here?" Cheryl asks. "Or maybe the better question is, why would you have ever needed to be in here? To say the earring might be here is to imply you've spent time here. Only our developers come in here."

  "Oh I—uh—I was taking a tour of the place the other day," I say.

  "In here?"

  “Well, Ethan and I…” I trail off.

  Cheryl looks at me. “Ethan and you, what?”

  I roll my eyes as if asking her if she really needs me to spell out the fact that we were fucking.

  “Right,” Cheryl says after a minute. “You fucked him.”

  “Or he fucked me, you know?” I say, giving her some sass. “It was kind of mutual.”

  “Do you always sleep with your clients?” Cheryl asks me.

  “It’s been my philosophy to get to know someone since high school,” I tell her sweetly as she raises her eyebrows at me. Fuck her. Interrogating me and shit.

  "Did you just so happen to develop that philosophy at … say … Man Chasers LLC?" she asks.

  When she says this I'm floored. How did she know that? And I'm sure that shock is written all over my face.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Oh come on Brittney," she says. "Do you think I don't know? I know all about your business."

  "This has nothing to do with my business," I say. There's no use lying and trying to tell her that Man Chaser's LLC doesn't exist. She obviously knows all about it. I have to just go with it.

  "I hope not," she says.

  "Being an actress for Illicit Entertainment has nothing to do with my previous work," I say, confirming my stance.

  "For your sake, I hope you're right," Cheryl says. Her gaze has intensified. "Because if you try to pull something here, you'll regret it. That much I can promise."

  I've honestly never heard this tone from Cheryl before and it catches me off guard. Our encounters, up till this point, have been cordial.

  I mean, I'm now in a hard place. I'm standing here—just moments from being caught, and I have stolen data on a USB drive hidden inside of my thong. I hid it there right when Cheryl came in. This is an act that can land me in jail.

  "This has gotten blown way out of proportion," I say. "I was just searching for an earring. I promise."

  Cheryl doesn't say anything further, and instead gives me one last icy stare before turning on her heels and walking back out the door. I also leave. My heart is pounding, and I need to get as far away from this place as possible.

  "Well that was close," I hear Walter say in my earpiece. He heard that entire conve
rsation, but I nearly forgot he was there.

  I whisper back, in a tone that's barely audible so that no one else can hear me, "Yeah, too fucking close for comfort."

  I find my things—my change of clothes, and my purse. I pull my cell phone from my purse to check and see if I have any messages, and as I'm scrolling through, a new text message chimes in.

  It's from Simon and reads, "DO U HAVE IT YET?"

  First off, I hate it when people type in all caps. Do you know what I mean? It's literally one of my biggest pet peeves—in texts, emails, you name it. It's like they're yelling. I'm not a fucking kid; calm down.

  So reading Simon's text instantly irritates me on one hand, and on the other hand, it reminds of the stakes. If I don't get this data to Simon quickly, I'm jeopardizing my life.

  Just as I'm about to reply, a second text message chimes in. This time, it's from Ethan. It reads: "I'd like to finish what we started in my office. Want to meet up again?"

  I'm instantly torn. If I'm honest, I'd love for nothing more than to be back in Ethan's arms, slowly peeling our clothes off and fucking each other until we can't fuck any more. The minute his text chimed in, my pulse quickened in excitement. It was like getting an extra dose of endorphins.

  Shit. What am I even saying? And what am I going to do? Am I falling for Ethan?

  I've never had these feelings with other men—it was only when Ethan came into my life …

  I look at both texts. Do I tell Simon I have the data he's been looking for? If I tell him, he'll demand the USB right now. And if I hand that data to him, it's over.

  But if I don’t hand this data over now, then the assignment continues.

  This data becomes obsolete in the next few days as they update the software. Whats in my hand becomes junk.

  I’ll never be able to look Ethan in the face again… I think for a moment and click on Simon's text, and I begin typing:

  "I'm still working on it."

  I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell Simon the truth. Not yet.

  I need more time to figure out what's happening. My heart's telling me one thing, and my head's telling me another.

  142

  Ethan

  You ever had those moments when you just look back on shit and know that you’re fucking happy?

  Like you can feel that yes, you are in fact really happy.

  Well, as I leave work, that’s the kind of feeling I'm having. As in even navigating from the heart of Times Square isn’t enough to sour my fucking mood. I mean, you’re talking to the guy who usually has his car come and pick him up so he doesn’t have to walk past the teeming throngs of idiots who think this is some sort of holy fucking shrine to come visit and stand in the middle of the sidewalk as they take pictures of overpriced fucking food carts.

  Yeah, that wasn’t me tonight.

  Tonight I waved to the security guy outside of Illicit Entertainment and walked with a brisk step uptown up 7th Avenue.

  Want to know the really best part about One57? The corner gourmet grocery store that sits right as you walk into the lobby. Seriously, I mean I’m talking fucking grocery store right underneath my apartment.

  I pause and pick up some vegetables and a few steaks.

  What?

  Don’t give me that look. I can cook. Did you really think there was nothing I couldn’t do? I went to fucking UCLA and made myself a billionaire fucking smut lord. I can do any fucking thing I set my mind to.

  It’s true, I usually eat out. Or I have my chef prepare my meals. But given the opportunity to, you’d be surprised what I can whip together.

  Like today. I’m going to grill some steak and then slice them real thin, and maybe sauté some vegetables and some couscous on the side. I ordered a cake for dessert, but it should be a perfect dinner for two.

  That’s right. I said two.

  As in Brittney is coming over for dinner.

  I know, I know. You’re either squealing in delight because you think she’s going to come over and we’re going to have dinner together, and then fucking cuddle, and then make sweet tender love. Or you’re rolling your eyes and wondering how I went from being the baddest motherfucking CEO in the country to some sort of fucking pussy.

  Well, it’s neither.

  Sure, I totally acknowledge that Brittney is coming over, and I’m excited to see her. It’s been a long fucking day. And she’s fucking gorgeous. Those tits. So fucking perky. That cute as a button face. That slender body. Oh my God, that ass. I want to rub my cock between those ass cheeks and then cum all over that tight fucking ass.

  Try it. Have some guy you know cum on the small of your back. I fucking guarantee you that you will love it, babe.

  And don’t look away or wonder who I’m talking to. I’m talking to you. If you have the opportunity to get someone to cum on the small of your back, then do it. Because literally every single girl I’ve ever done that to has cooed and told me the feeling of warm, thick, jizz right there in a sensitive spot has been one of the most pleasurable fucking experiences that they’ve ever felt.

  I get out of the elevator and walk to my door. My apartment is the only one on this floor and as usual, it's fucking immaculate. The building has a maid service that usually comes in and cleans once a day—or more—if I need them.

  Anyways, what was I even talking about? I was so focused on cumming on ass cheeks. Oh, right. Brittney.

  Yeah, she’s coming over for some dinner. Yeah, I’m probably going to fuck the shit out of her. But something about her, I really want to make dinner.

  There’s a ring on the doorbell and I open the door. The attendant from the downstairs gourmet food store has all my groceries and I let him in. He proceeds to the kitchen to unpack my purchases.

  I mean, sure, I rarely invite girls over to cook dinner for them.

  Okay, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked dinner for one girl before. There was one time I invited three girls over and I made some food and fed them while they took turns sucking my cock, individually and then all together. But that was work. We were fucking rehearsing, okay?

  I’ve invited girls for a drink before. One, maybe two glasses of wine before the dress is on the fucking floor and I’m ripping the panties.

  But dinner?

  Fuck.

  This is going to be a first for me.

  The attendant comes out after loading my kitchen up and nods to me. I tip him as he leaves and pour myself a scotch.

  All of a sudden, I’m thinking whether I should just take Brittney to dinner instead. Maybe I’m not ready to cook this girl dinner.

  But then, I think of her wide, innocent but sexy looking eyes. How they look, looking up at me. Shit, everything about her face is fucking beautiful. Even her neck is sexy. I just want to fucking kiss it and nibble on it until she’s squirmy.

  Her body is out of this world.

  Fuck.

  There is something fucking wrong here. But one thing I know is not wrong at all.

  Making her dinner. It feels like the most right thing in the world.

  I start preparing the food. It’s not that hard, really. Chopping vegetables isn’t that big of a deal when you can ask the chef at the store to pre chop it for you so it’s ready. The meat is already marinated and ready to go so I get those ready. The couscous is set to boil.

  I put the vegetables on a pan with some olive oil and I turn on the stove.

  I have another scotch and think back to how I would have probably fucking kicked myself in the nuts if I ever go back in time and tell myself what I’m doing now.

  But fuck it, I have bigger plans.

  Bigger goals.

  I’d tell you what they are but my doorbell rings again.

  That’s odd. It’s a bit early for Brittney to be coming already.

  I’m still wearing the apron I put on while cooking and I go to the door.

  Yes, I was wearing an apron, okay? I just didn’t fucking tell you because…I mean, it’s not important, is it? I still got the abs
underneath. I still got the fucking cock.

  And no, I am not fucking taking off the apron to open the door. Not even if it’s…

  Cheryl.

  She raises her eyebrows at me as she sees me holding a cooking spoon with an apron.

  “Do I even want to know what kind of weird sex game you’ve got going on?” Cheryl asks as she walks in. I turn around to give her room and she looks around as she comes inside.

  She sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?” Cheryl asks me, turning to me and narrowing her eyes.

  I shrug.

  “Are you cooking?” she asks me.

  “So what if I fucking am?” I snap back to her.

  Cheryl smiles. “I’m just asking Ethan, it’s okay,” she tells me and takes a step over. “Expecting guests?”

  I nod as I close the door and head to the kitchen. I need my scotch.

  “Who?” Cheryl asks, as she follows me.

  “Just someone I know,” I reply, not sure how to answer.

  Okay, I’m going to be honest with you, okay?

  It’s not that I don’t know how to say Brittney is coming over.

  It’s that I’m not sure why all of a sudden it’s that I don’t want to say Brittney is coming over. I’m a bit worried about…what?

  But Cheryl must fucking read my mind or something.

  “Is it someone you work with perhaps, hmm?” Cheryl asks, taking a step closer to me. “Someone maybe you hired to be the face for Illicit Entertainment?”

  I look toward Cheryl.

  “You have Brittney coming over, don’t you?” Cheryl asks me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re cooking dinner for that woman.”

  “Does it matter?” I ask with a sigh and turn to face Cheryl. I’m not sure if what I’m doing is the best course of action, but I’m sure as fuck not embarrassed about it. But enough is enough.

  “Do you know anything about that woman, Ethan?” Cheryl asks me sharply. “Do you know anything about what you look like when you’re around her?”

  I stare at Cheryl as she continues.

  “She’s changing you right in front of my eyes,” Cheryl says. “You used to be an asshole, now look at yourself. Cooking dinner.”