Captain

by Lauren Rowe

  “I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask, putting my palm to my ear. “Did you say—”

  “Theresa,” she barks, cutting me off. She grits her teeth. “But feel free to call me T-Rod.”

  “Ah, Theresa,” I say, my eyes trained on hers, every muscle in my body tensed. “Thanks for repeating that for me. I thought you said something else entirely. My bad.” I smirk. “I certainly wouldn’t wanna call you by the wrong name all week, would I?”

  Samantha shoots me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and turns her attention back to the crowd. “So, like I was saying, if you have any trouble downloading the app—”

  “And what’s your last name, Theresa?” I bellow.

  “Ryan,” Kat snaps at me. “What the heck?”

  Samantha ignores my sister’s chastisement. “Rodriguez,” she says, her voice steely, her eyes flickering with homicidal rage. “My name is Theresa Rodriguez. T-Rod. And you’re Ryan Morgan, right?”

  “Yep. That’s what they call me. I’ve never introduced myself by any other name in my life, so, yep, that must be my name.”

  She’s glaring at me, her nostrils flaring... and, strangely, I must admit, something in the way she’s looking at me is making my cock tingle like a motherfucker.

  “Hey,” I say. “I just got the T-Rod thing. It’s like A-Rod, huh? Cool.”

  “Alex Rodriguez wishes he were half the MVP Theresa Rodriguez is,” Josh says, and everyone chuckles.

  “But isn’t there yet another name you go by, Theresa-T-Rod?” I ask innocently. “I’m sure I’ve heard you introduced by yet another name at some point. You’re the girl with infinite names.”

  “Tessa,” my sister shouts. “But you’ve gotta earn the right to call her that, Rum Cake.” She smiles at Samantha. “Has my brother earned the right to call you Tessa yet, honey?”

  “Nope,” Samantha says quickly, and everyone laughs.

  Kat smiles at me. “Patience, Rum Cake.” She winks. “Charm her and you never know what might happen.”

  Everyone laughs again.

  Samantha’s eye twitches. “Any more questions, Ryan?”

  “Yeah, one more, actually.” Everyone turns to look at me, huge smiles on their faces. Obviously, everyone’s enjoying this unexpected game of tennis. “What exactly is your occupation, T-Rod? Sorry, I didn’t catch that. I could have sworn you said you were a—”

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Kat bellows. “Come on, Captain! Yes, we can all see T-Rod’s gorgeous, but you’re just gonna have to wait ’til the opening party later tonight to hit on her.”

  Everyone laughs raucously and shouts all sorts of stupid things about poor T-Rod needing a bodyguard and me being the biggest ladies’ man in the entire family and she’d better watch out and blah, blah, blah. (If ever there was a moment when I’d strongly prefer to belong to a normal family, now would be it.) And the whole time, I can’t take my eyes off Samantha. It makes no sense, since she’s a fucking sociopath and a liar and a mind-fucker of epic proportions, but, hot fucking damn, the more I stare at her across the lobby, at the way she’s blushing and fidgeting and basically looking like a woman walking the plank on a pirate ship, I can’t stop wanting to wrap her in my arms and tell her it’s gonna be all right. And then strangle her. And then fuck her ’til she screams for mercy.

  Fuck!

  Samantha’s been looking down at her toes for a long beat, and when she finally looks back up, her eyes are hard and decidedly unfriendly... and my cock lurches at the sight of her.

  “No, it’s fine, everyone,” T-Rod says evenly, her dark eyes locked with mine. “I don’t think I’ve explicitly told you all what I do yet.” She smiles, but her eyes are filled with nothing but murderous rage. “I’m Josh’s personal assistant. I’ve worked for him for six years—I started with him straight out of college and he’s like a brother to me—so I couldn’t be more thrilled for him to marry someone as wonderful as Kat.”

  The entire crowd cheers and raises their drinks—and, all the while, Samantha’s flashing me barely disguised daggers of hate. “Does that answer your question, Ryan?”

  I nod slowly and flash her a snarling smile. “Why, yes, it does. Thanks so much.”

  Samantha takes a huge breath, looks at the crowd, and flashes yet another fake smile. “Great. So, unless anyone else has any further questions, I’ll just direct you to my phone number at the top of the itinerary.”

  I roll my eyes to myself. Now Samantha’s giving me her phone number? Fuck my life.

  Samantha-T-Rod-Tessa continues. “So if there’s anything you need this week, please find me or call me and—”

  “Aw, hell no,” Josh bellows, cutting her off. “Starting tonight, T-Rod’s a guest this week, just like everyone else. If you guys need anything, you should call... T-Rod, who should they call?”

  “Marnie or Laila.” She points out two women in the crowd, and both of them wave and confirm they’re here to fulfill our every wish, need, and desire all week long and that T-Rod is most definitely one of the guests.

  “Okay, everyone, you got that?” Josh says. He puts his arm around Samantha’s shoulders. “T-Rod’s promised Kat and me she’s gonna let loose and have fun and drink far too many mai tais tonight, so I hope I can count on all of you Morgans to help me hold T-Rod’s feet to the fire on all her promises.”

  There are enthusiastic shouts from Morgans far and wide, most of them male, all of them pledging to personally shove T-Rod down a greased chute toward debauchery, but no one in the crowd is more enthusiastic in his pledge to ruin T-Rod’s good name (whatever the fuck it is) than my little-brother-the-manwhoring-stripper. I can’t hear every word Keane’s raucously shouting across the lobby toward the obvious object of his dick’s desire, but I can most certainly make out the word “pleasure” and the wolfish grin on his Captain-America face.

  Motherfucker.

  Samantha or T-Rod or Tessa (or whatever the fuck her name is) gets down from the bench and is immediately swarmed by Kat and my mom and several other enthusiastic Morgans, so I march straight across the room to my horny-as-fuck little brother, and, without warning, grip his neck from behind, yank him forcibly back, and whisper hoarsely into his ear through clenched teeth: “Don’t even think about it, Peen Star—she’s off-limits, motherfucker. She’s mine.”

  Chapter 24

  Ryan

  Keane wrestles free from my grasp and stumbles forward, rubbing the back of his neck where I gripped it like a vise. “Jesus, Dr. Spock. Take a chill pill, brah.” He scowls and rubs his neck. “Ow.”

  In reply, I whack Keane across the top of his head five or six times in rapid succession like a rogue ceiling fan, and he takes cover under his muscled forearms, laughing his ass off. “Jesus, Rum Jungle. Did you take a crazy-pill today? Calm the fuck down, Fuck-i-nator.”

  But I’m not done. I grab a fistful of Keane’s T-shirt and lean into his face, the vein in my neck bulging, my teeth bared. “I saw the way you were looking at her, fuckwit. Stuff your eyes back into your head and your pecker into your pants and back the fuck off, Ball Peen Hammer.”

  “I was just appreciating the girl’s bountiful assets, which any man can plainly observe, thanks to that lovely sundress she’s wearing. You don’t have to—”

  Without warning, I grab a fistful of Keane’s dirty blonde hair and forcefully yank his ear to my lips. “She’s off-limits, fuckface. This is your last warning.”

  Keane slaps my arm and pushes my chest and breaks free of my grasp, his face bright red and contorted in shock. “Jesus, Ry. Chill the fuck out. Seriously.” He pulls down his T-shirt and smooths his tousled hair. “I got it, Captain. The girl’s off-limits. No problemo, señor.”

  I nod definitively.

  Keane flashes a dimpled smile. “But, hey, just out of curiosity, what’s the reason for the off-limits designation? Is it just ’cause she’s Josh’s assistant? ’Cause if that’s the snag, that certainly doesn’t—”

  I violently rip the flower lei o
ff Keane’s neck, open my hand in front of his nose, and let the flower petals in my grasp float slowly to the ground. “It’s quite simple, Peeno Noir,” I say. “The girl’s off-limits ’cause I said so.”

  Keane laughs. “Jeez, so much for Rum Cake’s ‘aloha spirit,’ huh?”

  “I’m not joking, Peen. She’s mine. No room for debate. Roger?”

  “Okay, okay. Rabbit.” He pokes my shoulder. “But just tell me this: have you already dabbled with this one or did you just now see her across a crowded room and get struck by some kind of Zander-Shaw-style lightning bolt?”

  I glance across the lobby at her, my jaw muscles pulsing. She’s chatting with my cousin Julie and Julie’s new husband (and, holy fuck, does Samantha look un-fucking-believable in that sundress). “I haven’t dabbled yet,” I reply, and decide to leave it at that.

  Keane shrugs. “Well, gosh, Captain, if that’s the case, then there’s really no need for an off-limits designation. Sure, we’ve never shared an igloo yet, but that doesn’t—”

  I whack Keane across the top of his head again, this time much harder than before, barely suppressing my urge to punch him in his pretty teeth, and he covers his head and yelps.

  “I’m joking!” Keane shouts, laughing. “Dude, get a sense of humor. It was a joke.”

  “I have no sense of humor about this one, Keane.”

  “Obviously. Jeez.” Keane rubs the side of his head. “Damn, that actually hurt that last time.” He sighs. “Look, gimme some credit, okay? First off, you know I don’t do igloos.” He shudders. “Gross. And, second off, I’m dumb but not stupid. You’ve obviously been struck by some kind of lightning bolt here, and I’d never in a million years try to get in the middle of that. I’m a dick, not an asshole.”

  I take a deep breath and try to loosen my fists. “Thanks. Sorry I hit you so hard.”

  “No problem. Just lay off the hair next time, would you?” He shakes his head like he’s in a shampoo commercial. “It’s my crowning glory.”

  I violently muss his hair and slap his cheek and he leaps away from me, laughing.

  “Stop it! Jesus. What’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you so violent in all my twenty-two years, and I’m including the time you came at me with a chainsaw.”

  “I didn’t come at you with a chainsaw, dumbfuck—it was a Flowbee.”

  “Well, whatever. It was a loud, terrifying appliance aimed at my head. Traumatic, by any measure.”

  I laugh, despite myself. Fucking Peen. “Just stay away from her, little brother, or I’ll come at you with a chainsaw for real.”

  “I already said I’d lay off, fucker. Seriously, take a Valium or something. Your crazy’s hanging out, brah.” He winks, flips me off, and strides toward Zander, who’s currently standing twenty yards away talking to Dax and Dax’s two best friends (and bandmates), Colin and Fish. “Come on, boys!” Keane hollers, hoisting the remnants of his broken flower lei into the air. “I gotta get myself lei’d again!”

  I spot Samantha in a corner, chatting with that same woman with the clipboard, and stride across the room toward her, my heart racing and my dick tingling.

  When I reach her, I wordlessly grip her forearm and lean into her ear, making sure not to let my hard-on graze her hip. “Hey, Argentina,” I whisper hoarsely into her ear, my nose nuzzling into her hair. I inhale her scent and my hard-on turns to steel. “My room in ten, you little sociopath—and don’t be fucking late.”

  Chapter 25

  Tessa

  “Asshole!” I breathe to myself as I walk. I’m marching along a lovely winding pathway lined with hibiscus and plumeria trees, heading toward Ryan’s room on the far side of the resort, homicidal rage coursing through my veins. “Bastard!”

  My phone buzzes with an incoming text and I look at it. It’s Marnie, my right-hand woman for this week, texting with an update on some guests’ arrivals.

  I tap out a quick reply: “Something’s come up. Please handle the next few arrivals for me. Thanks.”

  I’m about to shove my phone into my bag when I notice a text from Charlotte from about a half-hour ago: “Hi, Crazy Girl. I know you’re super busy today, but call me when you can. You won’t believe who just called me out of the blue! OMFG!”

  I smile to myself. Charlotte’s love life is never dull, that’s for sure. I shove my phone into my bag. I’m sure Charlotte’s got a fabulous story to tell me, as usual, but I don’t have time to hear it at the moment. Right now, I’ve got to convince an asshole-player-douche not to torpedo my entire life by telling Josh and Kat the stupid thing I admitted to him three months ago at The Pine Box. Motherfucker!

  And, by the way, why the hell is Ryan so enraged about the “Samantha” thing? Okay, okay, I told him a fake name and occupation, but it was a victimless crime, dude! It’s not like I went on and on about my “glamorous career” throughout our conversation. To the contrary, I didn’t talk about my supposed profession even once! It’s not like I promised him some sort of friends-and-family-discount on flights! So, what’s his freaking deal? Jeez, the way Ryan looked at me in the lobby, I swear he wanted to strangle me with his bare hands. Or screw me. Or, heck, maybe I was just projecting my own impulses onto him, because, hot damn, that’s exactly what I wanted to do: rip his clothes off and screw him like an animal and then strangle him with my bare hands. Not normal.

  Okay, get a grip, Tessa. Focus on the task at hand. Ignore the fact that your crotch is currently swollen and throbbing. Your only tasks right now are twofold: one, to immediately stop wanting to fuck a lying scumbag (because that’s not normal!), and, two, to convince said lying scumbag to keep his big mouth shut about the stupid little crush you admitted to him.

  I reach Ryan’s door.

  I’ll just remain calm and explain things to him, that’s all. I’ll stay cool and calm and convince him there’s no reason whatsoever to tell Kat or Josh (or anyone else) a word of what I said. In fact, I know! I’ll threaten him that if he outs me, I’ll tell every single member of his family he’s a lying, cheating scumbag who collects phone numbers and asks women on dinner-dates behind his girlfriend’s back.

  Yes. So that’s the plan, then: Remain calm, cool, and rational; and, as necessary, fight fire with fire.

  I take a deep breath, shift my weight in a vain attempt to relieve the incessant pulsing in my crotch, and rap twice on the sexy bastard’s door.

  Chapter 26

  Tessa

  The door to Ryan’s room opens and there he is, the lying bastard himself, a panty-melting vision of blazing blue eyes, taut muscles, and ink.

  Ryan leans forward slightly in the doorframe and the smell of his cologne fills the air between us. “Hello, T-Rod,” he says caustically.

  I inhale deeply, titillated by his delicious scent. “Hello, Kat’s brother,” I say, matching his caustic tone. Holy hot damn, I’ve never in my life experienced this bizarre cocktail of hatred and arousal, all at once.

  Ryan’s gaze fixes onto my heaving chest for a long beat and then scorches a path slowly up to my face. “Gosh, T-Rod,” he says, his eyes blazing. “Thanks for coming to my room for a little chat.” He smiles like an executioner unsheathing his sword. “I know you must be incredibly busy these days, planning... and plotting... to fuck... your... boss.”

  My heart stops. Oh, no he didn’t.

  Ryan continues breezily: “So have you figured out your plan of attack for fucking my sister’s fiancé yet? Are you maybe gonna wait ’til Josh is shitfaced drunk this week and offer him a little quickie in the final hours before he says ‘I do’?”

  I clench my fists.

  “Or maybe you’re gonna swoop in right after my sister’s given birth to Josh’s baby girl and—”

  I can’t listen to another disgusting word. In a fit of rage, I lunge at him, my fists raised, my heart racing, my only intention to make him shut the hell up through any means necessary, but he’s much too strong and quick on his feet to let an inexperienced ass-kicker like me get the best
of him. In a flash of heat and blazing blue eyes and clenched teeth, the bastard’s got both my wrists firmly in his grasp and he’s pulling my screeching body into his room and kicking the door closed behind us.

  “Asshole!” I yell, struggling to free myself from his iron clutches.

  “Sociopath,” he spits back.

  In one fluid motion, he shoves my back against a nearby wall, pins my arms above my head, and presses himself against me, and when I feel the unmistakable sensation of his steely hard-on jutting against my crotch (right against my clit, as a matter of fact), I lose all resolve to resist him. I grind myself into the hard bulge in his pants and strain my face up to kiss him—and the second my lips make the barest of contact with his, he groans loudly, releases my arms, grabs my face, and presses his lips against mine like a man possessed.

  When Ryan’s tongue slides into my mouth, my entire body jolts like I’ve just stuck my finger into a light socket. I throw my arms around his neck and press my body against his and let his tongue and lips lead mine in what’s truly the most electrifying kiss of my entire life. Or, hell, maybe it’s just been so damned long since I’ve felt this particular sensation, I’m easily impressed. But, either way, oh my God, in this moment, I’d swear on a stack of bibles this is the most passionate kiss of my life! If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear this man was being reunited with his long-lost love—either that or he’s just escaped from a ten-year prison stint and I’m his first glorious taste of freedom.

  “Samantha,” Ryan breathes against my lips, and every cell in my body explodes with arousal at the sheer perversity of him calling me by that name. Damn, that’s hot. And liberating as hell. He’s kissing Samantha the Randy Flight Attendant and not Tessa Rodriguez? Fine by me. Because guess what, fuckwad? I’m not kissing you, either—I’m kissing the distant memory of my perfect Prince Charming—the sexy, articulate, honest guy I initially thought I’d met at The Pine Box.

  Unexpectedly, Ryan pulls out of our kiss and grabs ahold of my face, his features intense. “Leave now if you still need to ‘take things slow,’” he says, his eyes wild. “I know I said I could do that, but I can’t—not anymore. One more taste of you and—”