Bad Business

by Nicole Edwards

  “She’s far too young for him,” I say casually. Not that I really care, but come on. There has to be at least a ten-, maybe twelve-year age gap there. Or more. I don’t recall off the top of my head how old the man is.

  Allison rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t care. His dick could be all shriveled up as long as he has a big…wallet.”

  Once again, I’m laughing as I sip my wine and watch from our table, safely positioned in the VIP section above the dance floor.

  “Ooh, did you see that?” Allison nudges me. “What did he say? Her eyes got all big and she backed up. You think he turned her down?”

  I’m staring at the pair once more and sure enough, it appears Jason Stone said something the woman didn’t like. I wait patiently to see her reaction. I can almost imagine her smacking him across the face, putting him in his place for assuming she was easy.

  Granted, that never happens and it doesn’t happen now. Sugar Tits—as Allison referred to her—is suddenly latching onto his arm and grinning like an idiot as she follows him off the dance floor.

  My eyes trail them as they move back to the bar. He calls for the bartender—probably to get another round for both of them—before he turns and leans his elbows on the top.

  Interesting.

  He’s giving the girl his back, as though he’s not interested. Now that’s not something I usually see in here. Most of the time, the first girl who claws her way to the front of the line is the one who’s going to get lucky. Doesn’t look to be the case.

  Not that Sugar Tits is deterred in the least. The woman presses up against him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  I sigh, dragging my attention across the bar to the far corner where I see a beefy guy and a skinny girl practically screwing against the wall. They probably think they’re protected by the shadows, but every so often, one of the strobe lights hits right in that spot. It lights it up enough that I can see his thigh is between her legs, her dress is indecently high, and they’re slobbering all over each other.

  His hand falls between them, he shifts, and…

  “Oh, my God,” Allison whispers loudly right next to my ear. “They’re fucking.”

  Sure enough, his ass thrusts forward and it’s obvious that guy is banging that chick right against the wall.

  “And you’re surprised?” I ask Allison, unable to look away from the sight.

  “Who is that?” she asks. “I can’t see his face.”

  I shrug. I think it’s Leon Downs, but I’m not sure either. And honestly, I really don’t want to know because I have to face these players and the last thing I want to do is have a mental image of one of them fucking in the club.

  Not that I haven’t seen it before.

  Oh, sure, not all players are horn dogs. If someone claims they’re all like this, it’s a classic case of stereotyping. Football players are people, too. Some are married with children, happily at home tonight with their wife and kids. Some are gladly single, out to have a good time with their friends and not looking to pick up the first available piece of ass that shakes it in front of their face. And yes, there are the players who flaunt their fame and use it to get pussy whenever possible.

  My eyes drift back to Jason Stone. He’s standing at the bar with redheaded Skipper-Barbie at his side. He’s still not paying attention to her, but she seems content with that. I watch as he leans in and speaks to the bartender. I’m curious as to what he’s drinking, so I watch the bartender grab a glass, drop some ice in, then squirt in club soda. I wait for what comes next—whiskey or vodka, I assume—but that doesn’t happen and the bartender passes the glass over to Jason.

  I smile to myself.

  Looks as though our new QB knows his limits.

  Why that makes me like him a little bit, I’m not sure.

  But, there it is.

  Of course, that tiny amount of admiration disappears quickly when he turns around, his eyes scanning the room and somehow coming to land on me.

  I watch, seemingly mesmerized by his dark gaze.

  For a brief moment, I have to wonder whether or not he recognizes me. After all, I am a fundamental part of the Dallas Wranglers organization, carrying the title of executive vice president as well as chief public relations officer. If I’m being honest, they’re merely titles to explain the exorbitant amount of money that my father pays me. Yes, I have a degree. Yes, I’m damn good at what I do, handling more things than a title can possibly explain. However, my name and face aren’t known worldwide because I prefer to stay out of the spotlight, but anyone within the organization should know who I am.

  He lifts his glass in a mock toast then he has the audacity to wink.

  Okay. Either he doesn’t realize who I am, or he’s got some serious balls.

  “Oh, hell yes,” Allison hisses, leaning close. “I think someone’s spotted you.”

  I shake my head and force my gaze away from him.

  “Think he knows who you are?” my best friend asks, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.

  Honestly, I don’t know and I don’t care, but I say, “Doubtful. He’s too caught up in his own self to have any idea who I am.”

  “Well,” Allison smirks, “it might not matter because…yep, yep. Oh, yeah. He’s headed this way.” She leans in close. “Think maybe you’ll ditch the habit tonight and take a ride on the pony express?”

  Before I respond to her crude comment, my eyes dart back to that spot at the bar, and sure enough, the space Jason Stone previously occupied is now empty. I try not to look too obvious as I scan the area, attempting to locate him.

  Suddenly, Allison is thrusting something into my hand.

  “What is this?” I exclaim, quickly closing my fist around the condom she passed over. “Allison! I’m not—”

  “Well, hello there, Hottie McFootball Man,” Allison greets.

  Shit. I clench my fist around the prophylactic, willing my face to stop heating. I turn to my left, my gaze landing on none other than Jason Stone.

  “I was just headin’ to the bar,” Allison says cheerfully, getting to her feet.

  No she wasn’t. The traitor.

  I grab her dress and try to tug her back down, but she not-so-discreetly shoves my hand off.

  “Can I get you somethin’ while I’m up there?” Allison offers.

  I glare at the woman who was once my best friend. “No.”

  “Okay then,” she says with an extra cheerful note in her voice. “Be back in a bit.”

  “Mind if I sit?” Stone asks.

  “Actually…” Before I can answer, he pulls the chair out and drops into it.

  “You’ve got quite the view from here,” he says, his chin tilting toward the far corner of the bar.

  I know I shouldn’t look, but I do it anyway. Once again, my attention is drawn to the guy I’m about ninety-nine percent certain is Leon Downs and the faceless chick he’s banging. Damn, I have to give the guy credit. He’s got some serious stamina.

  “Someone should warn him about the spotlight,” Stone says thoughtfully.

  I can’t think about anything except for the damn condom in my hand.

  “So, what brings you out tonight?” he asks.

  Although I wish I was anywhere else, my upbringing doesn’t allow me to be rude to this man. For one, he may not know who I am, but I know who he is and chances are, at some point this season, our paths are going to cross. The least I can do is ensure that won’t be incredibly awkward for me.

  “Just spendin’ time with my friend,” I tell him. “You?”

  He shrugs. “Just chillin’.”

  More like celebrating their win. I find it interesting that Stone doesn’t clarify that. More accurately, I’m surprised he doesn’t launch into a spiel about who he is, maybe sing his own
praises a little.

  I haven’t yet officially met Jason Stone, since the team only acquired him a few months ago in a quick trade that had the league in an uproar regarding the timing. They pushed it right up until the trade deadline, but somehow managed to sneak it in. Not that my father gave a shit. He works on his own timetable, rules be damned. Despite the fact that I do manage a hefty portion of the organization, I spend a large amount of my time handling various other things, and those things have kept me busy as of late. At this point in time, I’m not disappointed by that fact. It allows me to keep this interaction with Stone impersonal.

  Regardless, I’m up to speed on all things Jason Stone. I know about his record, his history, and I’m even aware of his cocky attitude. Sure, the guy is one of the winningest quarterbacks to ever play the game, so he has stats to back him up. On the other hand, that doesn’t mean everyone’s going to like it.

  “I have to admit, I like it up here,” Stone says.

  “Yeah? Because of the free porn?” I ask, nodding my chin to the pair still going at it.

  “Nah. I can get that shit anywhere.”

  “Like your own bedroom,” I mutter under my breath. Aloud, I say, “It’s relatively quiet. Plus, it also keeps most of the creepers away.” I supply him with a fake smile. “Usually.”

  He laughs at that, although I know he’s aware I’m referring to him.

  “Creeper, huh?”

  I purse my lips, silently daring him to contradict me.

  As I subtly inspect him, I recall that I had recently read a specific description of him somewhere. Something like tall, dark, and distractingly handsome, I believe. Most likely in one of those articles that objectifies football players, calling out all their physically appealing features.

  I acknowledge that yes, he is tall. Based on his stats, I know he’s six-five, weighs in at two-hundred-thirty pounds. Up close and personal, six-five and two-thirty is much bigger than it sounds on paper.

  I guess dark suits him as well. With his dark brown hair—buzzed on the sides, longer on top and mussed in that sexy I meant to do this way—plus delectable dark brown eyes and bronzed skin, he unquestionably qualifies.

  As for distractingly handsome. Well. Okay, I’ll give him that, too. I can’t recall his exact age, although I know he’s over thirty, but he could easily pass for twenty-five. The man is by far one of the hottest men to come out of the NFL, and that’s saying something. I mean, come on, do I have to say anything more than Tom Brady, Miles Austin, Cam Newton, Reggie Bush, Danny Amendola? And no one could forget the smoking hot J. J. Watt.

  Yes, I could go on forever.

  I know for a fact that Jason Stone has been listed in the top ten of those sexiest men in the NFL lists for…well, I don’t know for how long, but I’m sure it’s been since he hit the ground running thirteen or so years ago. He’s one of those guys who has only improved with age.

  Not that I pay attention to those lists.

  Much.

  However, right now, I do my best not to notice how attractive this man is. He’s off-limits to me, which means it’s pointless to check him out. Granted, it’s not nearly as easy as I pretend it is because the guy is rather attractive.

  Then again, he is a player—in more than one sense of the word—and I have absolutely no interest in him in any manner that doesn’t pertain to business.

  I just figure tonight probably isn’t the right time to introduce myself.

  I’m sure he’ll figure it out sooner or later.

  Chapter 3

  I think Jason Stone will be the first to admit that talking about himself is not something that comes easy for him. He can do it, absolutely, but I don’t think it’s his first choice in topics. Ask him about the game, ask him about past and present greatness in the football arena and the guy can ramble on forever. Ask him how he feels about the season so far, and he can deflect like nobody’s business. Folks, this interview is going to be interesting.

  —Excerpt from Sports Unlimited’s Bad Boys of Sports edition

  Stone

  There is something extremely familiar about this woman, however, I’m not sure where I know her from. Surely if I’d met her before, I would’ve remembered. The long, dark hair, the brilliant bright green eyes, the slightly squared chin and those lips.

  Damn, those lips. It’s wrong of me to be picturing them wrapped securely around my cock, but that’s where my mind instantly drifts. I haven’t had this sort of reaction to a woman in a long damn time.

  She’s memorable to say the least.

  Which, I can only assume means I don’t know her. I would’ve remembered her. Especially the way she seems to regard me with moderate disinterest and more than a little irritation.

  “So, no plans to determine how sturdy that wall is, huh?” I tease, my eyes darting down to see Leon finally finishing off that poor chick.

  She regards me from beneath thick, dark lashes, then cocks her head behind her. “No, I prefer that wall.”

  I can’t help it, I fucking look. I know she’s messing with me, but damn. Now, I’m picturing her pressed up against the wall at the back of the VIP section, my cock buried to the hilt in her body, her puffy bottom lip trapped between her teeth as I make her come over and over again.

  Then I laugh.

  Not because it’s funny, but because this chick is a breath of fresh air. As of now, ten minutes after I joined her at the table, not once has she hit on me or tried to feel me up in any way. In fact, I’d go so far as to say she considers me an interruption to her otherwise pleasant evening.

  Then again, I probably would’ve left by now if I hadn’t caught her sizing me up at least once in the past five minutes. She might deny it, but I definitely saw a hint of interest in those iridescent green eyes.

  When her wineglass is empty, I signal the waitress for another, waving off more for me. I’m down to club soda anyway, so it’s no hardship.

  “If you’re lookin’ to get lucky tonight, you should probably head back to where you came from,” she says, her tone sugary sweet and completely annoyed.

  “Why would you think I’m lookin’ to get lucky?” I ask, both amused and curious as to what brought that on.

  She cocks one perfect eyebrow.

  I widen my eyes in mock surprise. “Oh, wait.” I motion back and forth between us. “Did you think I was…interested?” I shake my head dramatically. “Oh, no, you’re definitely not my type.”

  She grins and I like that she knows I’m teasing. If I’d said that to some of the women in this place, they would’ve turned their noses up at me or poured their drink on my head.

  “Well, that’s good.” She mimics the motion of my hand. “Because you’re definitely not my type.”

  “No?”

  “Uh-uh. Certainly not.”

  “You don’t go for good-looking guys?”

  The corner of her mouth curls in an almost-smile. “It’s the cockiness I’m not attracted to.”

  “Oh, so you’re not into cock. Got it.”

  She laughs, nearly spitting her wine out, which only makes my smile grow.

  When she settles down, I meet her eyes. “You won’t get any judgment from me. To each his own and all that.”

  “Her.”

  “What?” I lock eyes with her.

  “Her own,” she clarifies.

  “Got it. To each her own. My apologies to feminists everywhere.” I can’t stop grinning.

  “Well, that’s very considerate of you.” She glances out at the dance floor below. “So, why’d you dump Sugar Tits?”

  I peer down at the dance floor and notice the redhead I danced with earlier. Looks as though this woman beside me was more interested than she claims. I mean, she was obviously watching me.

  Th
en her comment registers.

  “Uh…wait. Did you just call that girl Sugar Tits?”

  “I did.”

  “They were kinda sweet tits, right?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I like her.

  “So, you got a name?” I ask.

  “I do,” she replies. “Most people do.”

  Yep, I like her more and more with every passing minute. “Good one. But I take it you’re not gonna tell me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any reason why not?”

  “I prefer the anonymity.”

  “Ahh. In that case, my name’s not important either. Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand and wait for her to return the gesture.

  I notice that she transfers something from one hand to the other. When her small fingers touch mine, I hold on for an extra second or two, ensuring we make eye contact while doing so.

  “What’s in your hand?” I ask, leaning in closer to her.

  “Nothing,” she blurts, then reaches for the small clutch lying on the table.

  Unable to resist, I grab her hand before she can hide it.

  Laughing, I meet her eyes, noticing her cheeks are now bright red. “A condom? Wow. I look like a sure thing, huh?”

  She laughs, but it comes out strangled. “No! God, no. My friend…Never mind.”

  Damn she’s cute.

  Unfortunately, she doesn’t enlighten me as to why she’s palming condoms in the club. Instead, she tosses it into her purse and grabs her wineglass. I feel her eyes darting over to me a few times.

  She might say she doesn’t have any interest in me, but I’m not sure I’m buying that.

  Not that I’m going to try to change her mind. I’m pretty content with what we’ve got going right now. When I came here tonight I had no agenda. I’m not looking to get laid, not needing to find some woman to hook up with.