ROUGH RIDER

by Nikki Wild

  * * *

  Do you want new release notification, a chance to be an ARC reader, special limited time discounts, and FREE EXCLUSIVE Nikki Wild content? Click here to sign up for my WILD mailing list today! Signup is easy and I will NEVER send you spam or share your e-mail address with anyone.

  Prologue

  Lex

  My name is Alexander Lambert, but you can call me Lex… after all, everyone else in Great Britain does. My rabid fans, the sportscasters, and the tabloids know me by a slightly different name: “Lightning Lex Lambert.”

  You see, I’m kind of a big fucking deal.

  For the last twelve years, I’ve been rising in the football world – or soccer, as the Americans call it, rather incorrectly I’ll quickly add.

  I’ve paid my dues, playing in some of the most prestigious teams to grace the great echelons of English football might: some junior teams, Manchester United, Galaxy League, a few seasons here and there with an underdog or two… and now the National team.

  Which means one thing:

  I’m a World Cup caliber player.

  The greatest sport on Earth, watched with borderline zealotry by over a hundred countries, all culminating in a grand championship that draws audiences over hundreds of millions. The sheer marketing dollars spent on that tournament outperforms the gross domestic product of smaller countries, every single year, and it’s only getting bigger and bigger.

  And right there on the field?

  Me.

  Lex Fucking Lambert, star player and team captain of the English National Team. I am the best of the best, a regular household name in my home country. My signature alone is a prized commodity in the realm of sports merchandising. Signed headshots fetch for thousands of dollars on eBay, especially since I’ve only signed maybe twenty or thirty of them in my entire life.

  My reputation for fearless, combative ball is legendary among discussions of the sport. When I step out under the lights and look down my hardened, take-no-prisoners enemies on the field, they quake with fear.

  I’m known off the field as well, although that preceding reputation is slightly different… and even more fun.

  Let’s just say that playing it family friendly is a damned good waste of ridiculous fame, staggeringly impeccable physique, and my particular breed of effortlessly rugged features…

  I might have been caught in the tabloids a few times with some hot, nameless piece of ass. Or, you know, maybe a lot more than a few.

  What can I say? I’m a handsome piece, and I know how to wear a tailored suit… and as it turns out, the women go crazy for that kind of thing.

  They all fancy a shag with Lex.

  I had it all – the looks, the game, the prestige, and the effortless, thirsty pussy thrown at me every time I walked into a bar. Life was great, and the sex on demand was even better. But I lacked one thing, and I knew exactly what it was.

  The big money.

  You might have never heard of the Patrovo Corporation, but they’re a bigger deal in Jolly Ole England than me.

  Hard to imagine, I’m sure.

  Pretty much everything from top-tier, high-end sneakers to household boxes of oat cereal are owned by some subsidiary company that eventually bows to the Patrovo Corporation, no matter how high up the food chain you have to go. They have their grubby little fingers in goddamn everything… and they dish out one multi-million dollar corporate sponsorships to one lucky star athlete per year… the best of the best.

  In case you’d forgotten… that’s me.

  I wanted that contract with every fiber of my being. I burned for it. Nobody else deserved it more than me. I was already a pop culture celebrity, known and beloved by the entire country… and I had the skills to back it up.

  That money belonged to me.

  Which made this little conversation all the more upsetting…

  “You do realize why you’re not getting the sponsorship, yeah?” Jess casually asked as she sipped from her frothing pint of dark ale.

  She and I were sitting across from each other at a small, private bar-top table in my favourite pub, The Grinning Twig. It was one of the few watering holes that held my authority in such reverence that I could sneak through the back and sit in a private room with a lips-sealed, mum’s the word bartender.

  Jess continued, setting her glass down and wiping the froth from her lips with the back of her hand. “I mean, even you aren’t that dull in the head, Lex. Surely, you’ve figured it out by now.”

  “Go ahead, then,” I growled in slight protest; I set my own glass down against the bar with a clatter that rang a little too loudly. My private bartender glanced up from wiping out the mug in his hands, but when it was clear that I didn’t give a rat’s arse about him, he soon resumed his work.

  One look at Jess’s face, and my mind quickly changed. “Wait, no. You’re doing that sodding smirk of yours. Don’t do the smirk.”

  “What smirk?” She asked innocently, her eyes flashing wild with mischievousness. “Couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about…”

  “You’re doing it right now,” I repeated, my voice gravelly with mounting frustration. “I know that smirk. That’s the smirk you give that rambunctious, shit-assed pup of yours when he’s misbehaving.”

  Of course, I wasn’t referring to a dog. Jess didn’t own a dog. What she did own was a taste for men barely old enough to move out of their mummy’s house… this month, he was a sniveling, spineless punk wannabe.

  Kept on a leash like any good dog, Timothy was a scrawny little fuck… a wet-behind-the-ears kid just tall enough to pull off a leather jacket. Even that took a little convincing.

  Ignoring my criticism of her fuck-buddy choices, Jess’s smirk widened, and she reclined against the bar stool, crossing her arms.

  “You know what I’m going to say.”

  “Let’s pretend that I don’t,” I insisted.

  I didn’t like being toyed with, and she knew that. The two people I needed to confide in at times like this were my best friend, and my publicist.

  Life put both in the same fucking woman.

  What a lucky sod that made me.

  Jess watched me for a moment, choosing her words and judging my reactions before finally cutting loose. “Lex, the Patrovo Corporation invests a lot of money into proper brand representation. The athletes they slap on the boxes of cereal, or put in their stupid shoe commercials, they need those athletes to protect their interests.”

  “I’m well aware,” I gruffly reminded her.

  Jess raised an eyebrow. “I understand that. But what you’ve got to realize is that Brett Barker plays it safe as shit. His choice is going to be careful, calculated, and definitely not you.”

  “I’m safe,” I protested, lifting my arms in protest before clasping the fingers behind my head. “Safe as they come.”

  “Safe doesn’t get their photos slapped across a six-page major spread,” she grumbled, reaching into her purse to whip out a creased tabloid. She shoved it towards me, and I lazily leaned back forwards and rifled through the pages.

  Sure, I was on the cover again. No big deal.

  “I don’t see what you’re–”

  Then I stopped, glancing at the photos. Seemed like the paparazzi fucks had stalked me to a hotel balcony, where I’d been photographed with my arms around two lovely little ladies.

  I remembered them. Not their names, of course, but I recalled the three nights of glorious, hardcore lovemaking we’d had together… and how jealous the gods must have been in their various pantheons.

  Of course, that didn’t matter now.

  Not when I was staring at various blurry pictures, showing under no arguable terms that I was kissing one with another on her knees in front of me at cock level. In another candid photo, they were kissing for my entertainment… and in yet another, they were both at cock level in front of me, with my proud face held high and each palm resting on their heads...

  Yeah, I’d almost forgotten how good those f
ew days had been. Cor blimey, were they voracious in the hotel bed... and in the shower… and on the balcony, as the paparazzi apparently noticed.

  “Yeah. Safe is the last word that comes to mind when I put ‘Lightning Lex Lambert’ and ‘corporate sponsorships’ in the same sentence,” Jess elaborated. “I’m afraid your chances with Mr. Barker were tenuous before… but now they’re shot to hell.”

  “Brett Barker can ride a knob straight to hell,” I grumbled angrily, downing the rest of my ale.

  “Yeah, well, he’s your meal ticket,” Jess shrugged. “You can’t exactly antagonize the Head of Public Relations for the entire Patrovo Corporation and then expect to wind up his year’s pick for the cereal boxes.”

  I gave a stiff nod to the bartender, who poured me another ale and rushed it to my side. “Cheers, mate,” I offered him, and he stifled a small smile with utmost professionalism.

  “You’re my publicist, Jess,” I told her after a quick, refreshing sip. “How do I get my big, grinning mug on a commercial?”

  Jess sighed. “Do you want me to answer as your friend, or as your publicist?”

  “Both, obviously.”

  “Well, as your publicist, you need to clean your fucking act up – and fast. No more of these stunts. The only reason you even have a ghost of a chance anymore is that the entire country bloody well loves you. You’re a national icon, regardless of the pair of lips around your cock at any given moment. If you really want this sponsorship deal with the Patrovo Corporation… something’s gotta give, and it’s gotta give now.”

  I read her eyes thoughtfully, tempted to lash out about my various trophies, athletic stats, or how vital to pop culture I already was.

  But I trusted Jess.

  I valued her.

  And as an old friend and a talented representative, I let her speak to me in ways that would earn scathing destruction under any other circumstances.

  “So that’s Publicist Jess speaking,” I commented gruffly. “What about the other one?”

  “As your friend?” Jess asked.

  I nodded quietly.

  Her eyes flashed wildly again, and that smirk slipped back across her lips. As I felt a heavy pit in my stomach, she leaned forward, whispering as if anyone could hear us in this private pub room.

  “I think I have an idea…”

  My skepticism somehow found a new height. “An idea, yeah?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Am I going to like this?”

  “Well, that depends…” Jess mischievously remarked, taking another swig of her drink.

  “How do a few weeks in America sound?”

  “Why the bloody hell would I want to go to America?”

  Jess slapped a hand down on the table. “Because in America, nobody knows your name.”

  1

  Riley

  The canvas sang with streaks of color as I dashed my palette knife along the taut material. Beneath my deft strokes, a serene landscape was springing to life, filled with clouds, mountains, and trees… and for the foreground, a hilltop pasture.

  This was what I lived for.

  Painting came naturally to me. On my mother’s side of things, a thick streak of artistic creativity ran in the family. My grandmother had been a skilled seamstress and designer. My mother had been particularly skilled in sculpting.

  That left me: Riley Ricketts, the painter.

  Happiness was an empty canvas and a broad spectrum of vibrant paints, all ready for the skillful dance of my wrist. I favored a water-based style, coating the blank vessel of my artwork with a thin layer of clear-coat before adding in the surreal colors with a palette knife, a half-inch brush, or the edge of whatever expendables I had nearby.

  I’d painted with sponges, crushed chocolate wrappers, Lego bricks, even steel wool. A consummate improviser, I worked with whatever was accessible and necessary to achieve the effect.

  Although the gift came almost as naturally to me as breathing, I’d found myself in a bit of a bind these last few months.

  The magic had gone away.

  Whatever invisible muse had been guiding my work, it had scampered off into the night. My art still came as easily as ever, but it felt uninspired. It never looked the way I wanted it to.

  Despite the protests of my few close friends, I let each failed piece languish in the spare closet. They called it the Closet of Doom. It had become a graveyard of forgotten canvases… a tomb for failed passions.

  I glanced down at the canvas before me now, seated comfortably on the easel. As I wiped clean the palette knife in my hand and lifted a blue-tipped brush, ready to enhance the clouds above, my hand hesitated waveringly.

  No, I thought to myself.

  This won’t do.

  As if I were a disappointed parent, I dipped the brush back into the cup of water and beat the Devil out of it against the metallic easel frame. Down went my pallet, set aside for later use, and the brush dropped into my easel-side container.

  I stretched my limbs, intertwining my fingers outwardly above my head. The light was already turning, casting my small studio in the throes of twilight. Soon, Reiko would be here, ready to cast off another dismal day running her boss’s sandwich shop. Maybe Connor would join us tonight, although I was growing less and less patient with his passive-aggressive advances.

  It was obvious he wanted to date me, but I’d held the same sisterly affection for him that I had since junior high… for whatever reason, that apparently wasn’t enough anymore.

  Worries for another time, I decided, bending to the side to stretch my back.

  I heard the door squeal open, and the slight clatter as it slid back into place.

  “You in the studio?”

  “Yeah. You can come in.”

  Reiko Sugiyama leaned against the doorway, already dressed in her street clothes. With a cute, round face and soft features, her casually fierce eyes reinforced everything that her sheer force of presence said: Don’t fuck with me.

  Despite her lithe form, Reiko’s snarkiness and intimidation were the things of legend. I’d only ever witnessed it secondhand, but my other best friend since junior high was a sight to behold. There wasn’t a single bone in her body that lacked confidence, and she walked with her head held high and a strut that showed the world who was really the boss.

  It was a shame that she was so lazy.

  With just a pinch more ambition, she would have already left her job: babysitting a bunch of teenagers barely able to string along a decent club sandwich.

  “Whatcha got there?” Reiko asked, nodding in the direction of the canvas. “No, no, let me guess… another one of your recent failures, am I right?”

  “Maybe,” I answered apathetically.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” she sighed, pushing off from the doorway and sauntering over. Her black boots clanged against the hardwood floor as she bent over beside me and peered at the canvas. “You know, whatever it is that you hate about your art these days, I just don’t see it. This looks just as fucking fantastic as your usual shit.”

  “Shit being the operative word,” I replied, wandering towards the kitchen to give her privacy with the painting. After hours of being in the zone and away from my bodily needs, I was positively parched.

  “You know what I mean!” She called out from the studio room. “I just don’t get it. People would kill for talent like yours. Tell me, explain it to me… what makes this suck to you?”

  Pouring myself a glass of water, I ripped the scrunchie from my hair. My mane fell over my shoulders, the unfurled locks eager for release.

  “I don’t expect you to get it,” I answered truthfully. “There’s something missing. A spark…” I walked back down the hall, settling against the doorway as she had before.

  “Well, I’ll trust your judgement,” Reiko grinned over her shoulder, before her smile faded into concern. “But you’ve been on this warpath against your own work for, what, months now? I know you say you lost your spark or whatever, but maybe this stuff is better than yo
u think?”

  She turned back to the mostly finished landscape, clearly admiring my efforts. “I mean, this doesn’t belong in your Closet of Doom. If that’s what you’re doing with it, let me put this up on my wall. I need art for my bare ass apartment anyway. Hell, I’ll take half of that closet right now.”

  “You know I can’t let you do that,” I reminded her. “I can’t let this out into the wild. It’s fine here… where it’s safe… at least, until I can figure out what’s wrong with it, maybe clean it up.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know…”

  She looked a little glum, but I appreciated that Reiko understood my artistic selfishness. The idea of something inferior that I’d created with my own hand being out there, even on a close friend’s wall… the idea bothered me.

  Hell, Connor had tried to sneak off with one of my castaway closet paintings, and I’d furiously banned him from my apartment for two months. It had been a breach of my trust as a friend and an artist.

  Reiko understood.

  “Alright, well, I know there’s no convincing you otherwise,” she finally conceded, standing up straight. “Anyway, I like it. It’s good.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I smiled.

  “…Oh! I almost forgot the whole reason why I’m here!”

  She grinned ear to ear, clasping her fingerless gloved hands together. “Get yourself cleaned up, woman. We’re going to the French Quarter tonight.”

  “Oh yeah?” I tilted my head. “Why’s that?”

  “Because the guitarist in that band I like is a bartender down there, and he tells me that this rugged, British dude showed up a few days ago. He’s been coming in every night since, mostly keeping to himself. I think you need a little something different, so you’d better get glammed up and get your flirt on.”

  Now that was intriguing.

  “I don’t know… Maybe I don’t feel like going out tonight,” I replied, trying to bury the little devil of excitement creeping up inside me.