Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  “You do.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Grace, he can’t be that bad. I’ve got Jeffery over in Syria halfway to having his head cut off and you’re complaining because Prince Charming gave you a compliment?”

  Fucking Jeffery and his Pulitzer. Amanda doesn’t let an opportunity slip to bring him up.

  I exhale and shake my head. “He asked me for oral sex.”

  A pause, followed by, “And, did you?”

  I actually hold the phone out in the air, shaking it and silently screaming. “I did not. I’m a journalist, Amanda, not a hooker.”

  “Could have been interesting, a real blow-by-blow account.”

  I can hear her cracking up on the other end of the line, other voices. “Do you have me on speaker?”

  She’s still laughing. “Of course not, darling. Now, do as the British do and ‘pip up’. This is your chance to shine.”

  “Amanda…”

  “You know the drill, Grace. You know what we discussed. You get in and you get the real dirt on him any way you can. Tear him to fucking shreds. It sounds like you’ll enjoy it.”

  I’m not duplicitous, not into this whole two-face thing Amanda’s set up. “They truly believe I’m here to help, you know, that this piece will be fluffy, all good fodder. When it does go to print, this exposé you want, there will be all out war.”

  Amanda snorts. “They’ll get over it. We’re in the business of selling papers, Grace, not keeping international relations up.”

  “We’ll never get another royal interview.”

  “We won’t need another if you do this right. The public can’t get enough of this guy.”

  “I won’t be allowed into the damn country again.”

  “I thought you hated it?”

  She’s not wrong. “I just don’t like deceiving people.”

  “Even if he is a raging womanizer, privileged and entitled? You do remember what he and his boys in the Chaos Club did to that poor pub owner, don’t you? He’s a brat, Grace. They all are, and you have the chance to cut his legs off. Do I really need to take away the knife?”

  She has a point. I cannot stand his type, those who sail through life living off the money of others, no regard for anyone else, so assured. Yes, fuck him and his kind. “Fine.”

  “That’s my girl. Ciao, now.”

  The line goes dead and I’m sure they’re all there in Amanda’s fish tank of an office having a real laugh at my predicament.

  I go to slam down the phone but lie on the bed instead, covering my face with a pillow, but all I see is him, his thing, his eyes… “Curse your cunty hotness!” I scream.

  There’s a knock on the door, the second in the last half-hour. If it’s another batch of fucking towels…

  I almost slip on the hall rug, I’m in such a rush to unleash hell. I throw open the door, “What do you—” stopping when I realize it’s one of Spencer’s bodyguards, the tall, Karl Drogo one.

  He flinches back a little and I swear his hand moves to his gun.

  Do I really look that crazy?

  “What?” I blurt out.

  The bodyguard clears his throat before speaking. “Prince Spencer requests the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight.”

  “Prince Spencer can take his dinner and—” but I can’t bring myself to finish it. I’ve got a habit of running away from things in my life. I can’t do it again. I won’t. Amanda’s right. I’ve got to suck it up and get this done.

  “We have a car waiting, Miss Everett. Should I give you a moment to get ready?”

  I smile sarcastically at the bodyguard. “Just let me grab my stripper heels.”

  *

  My transport is a Rolls Royce. You could host a dinner party in the back of it.

  I have a chauffeur. His name is Jeeves. I kid you not. Jeeves is a robot. His conversation is limited to the weather and a brief description of his time in New York circa 1972.

  I look through the back window. “The man following us, he’s one of the Prince’s bodyguards?

  “Protection Command, ma’am (sounding like ‘Mom’), assigned to the Royal Family. Name’s Marcus, I believe.”

  “And the other man?”

  “Richard.”

  I take note of the names. If the Prince isn’t willing to give up the dirt, his bodyguards surely will. They could prove useful.

  We arrive, Jeeves helping me from the car. Spencer’s bodyguard emerges from the SUV behind us. A cop wanders over, bobby hat and all, and he says, in what appears to be a sentence condensed into one word, “Sowasgoinonaboothereeh?”

  Marcus waves his credentials in front of the officer, dismissing him. He hobbles off in a flurry of apology.

  We’re in the middle of the city, right in front of a McDonalds.

  “Here?” I ask. “The Prince wants to have dinner here?”

  “He’s downstairs, ma’am. Second level, party room.”

  I raise an eyebrow of suspicion. “O-kay.”

  Inside, McDonalds is busy with young, alternate types, bums and suits.

  I make my way downstairs as instructed, finding Spencer seated in a full tux at the table in the kiddies’ birthday room.

  He gestures to a seat, read: oversized Ronald McDonald chair. “Please.”

  I place my phone down between us. “I’m recording this.”

  “Be my guest.”

  I cross my legs, conscious of the heat gathering between them, the all-encompassing betrayal of my body in front of this rogue. “This is a McDonalds.”

  His lips are full, sinfully perfect. “Your American powers of perception astound me.”

  “It isn’t exactly what I imagined when you invited me out for dinner.”

  A female server arrives from upstairs and places two Happy Meals down. She looks about sixteen, giggling and blushing as she runs away. Spencer takes two white plates out of a bag on the floor, a table cloth, cutlery. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “It’s Royal Doulton. I pinched it from the Palace.”

  It smells like vegetable oil down here, and industrial cleaning agents. “Of course you did. So, why the venue?”

  “I thought it might suit your American sensibilities. We don’t have In-N-Out, you see.”

  “Do I look like I eat a lot of fast food?”

  He runs his eyes up and down my body. “My mistake.”

  “So?”

  “The, ahem, ‘finer’ establishments of the East End know I’m a frequent visitor. Central McDonalds does not. We’ll be safe from the paparazzi here for,” he checks his watch, a silver Omega SeaMaster 300 M GMT, “oh, for around twenty minutes—until the text Poppy Longstocking sent just now manages to reach the masses. I’m simply respecting your privacy.”

  “How chivalrous.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And the business at Cambridge?”

  He takes off his jacket, hanging it behind himself on Ronald’s head. He fills out the shirt below flawlessly, the impression that at any moment he might simply flex and bust free Superman style. “A joke.”

  “Your penis?”

  He weaves his fingers together in his lap, thumbs tapping together. “It’s been called many things, but never a joke. You Americans do have humor over there, don’t you?”

  “We do, and sexual harassment.”

  “Easy, Grace Everett,”

  “You remembered my name.”

  He leans back. “More than your name, I’m afraid. I quite haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”

  “I’m immune to your charms.” But as I say it a distinct flutter runs through my core.

  “We’ll see.” And damn him, he’s using those magnetic eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for the bad boy, the wayward and lost—some strange need to fix and repair, make my own, not that a guy like Prince Spencer (James Alexander Richard) could ever be tamed. No, he needs to be caged up and gagged before he does any more damage to the royal name.

  He slides his hands into his pockets, casual n
ow. “I’m not what you think, Grace.”

  I watch him carefully. It’s the first sincere thing he’s said. “No? Enlighten me.”

  “Okay. I love Kayne and Kandinsky. I have a birthmark on the back of my thigh shaped like a fishhook. I hate pretenders and loathe mediocrity. I’m fiercely loyal and protective of my friends. I volunteer at a local soup kitchen. I’ve slept with more than fifty woman but less than one hundred and not a single one has stayed the night. Is that enough insight for you?”

  The sudden info dump takes me by surprise. I’m actually lost for words.

  Spencer speaks to my iPhone. “Did you get that, ol’ chap?”

  I force myself back into work mode. “Good, that’s a start, but tell me about the Chaos Club. You’re a member?”

  “Officially, no. Unofficially, yes.”

  The smell of cheeseburger is making me hungry. I lied. I’m a fast-food junkie. I know the In-N-Out secret menu by heart, worked at Denny’s for three years to help pay off my student loans… loans I’m still paying off. “You admit to trashing the pub in Gloucester, bashing the owner?”

  “Officially, yes. Unofficially, no.”

  Le-sigh. “This is going to be a very boring article if you keep this up.”

  “Understand this, Grace. The Chaos Club has housed some of the most powerful names in all of England—royalty, prime ministers, lawyers, judges. I can’t up and divulge all its secrets.”

  “Is it true members must pour a bottle of port over their heads in a public area of campus to be initiated?”

  “Yes.”

  “I really don’t get the whole secret-club thing.”

  “You went to Harvard, home of the Skull and Bones.”

  “The Skulls don’t have female members, at least ‘officially’.”

  Spencer sits forward. “You’re more stimulating than I gave you credit for, Grace. I did my own research, you know.”

  “On what?”

  His eyes burn through me. “On you.”

  I swallow. He might have Scotland Yard at his disposal for all I know. Relax, your records are sealed, never to see the light of day. “And what did you uncover?”

  “You won the Young Writer’s Award for your piece on homegrown terrorism. A fine read. You enjoy an eclectic mix of music, movies, big Shakespeare fan, but the deepest, darkest secret of all I uncovered?”

  No.

  “You’re a closet Twilight fan.”

  I exhale with relief. “So sue me. You’re the one who could double for the undead with your paper-white skin.”

  “And pecs. Don’t forget the pecs.”

  I smile, more and more at ease, damn him.

  He motions to my Happy Meal. “You can eat, you know.”

  “I won’t say no.” I take out a cheeseburger and absolutely demolish that bitch right in front of his face.

  He crosses his arms and slowly shakes his head. “Most unladylike.”

  I reach into the box. “What’s this?’

  Spencer looks in, intrigued.

  I pull out the bird.

  Spencer laughs, slow-clapping. “Touché, Grace Everett. Touché. Now, the matter of tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I mumble, mouth half full of cheeseburger.

  “Yes, I’ll need you to meet me on the second floor of the stacks at this library on campus.” He pushes across a card with an address on it, smiles, and I can feel myself slowly being undone by him. Everything in my head is screaming ‘stay the fuck away’, but I’m pulling towards him like a kid caught in a current. I can’t even imagine what we’d be like together. One word: Disaster.

  I place the burger down, pick melted cheese out of my teeth. If you’re trying to look as unattractive as possible, Grace, you’re doing a damn good job. “Why?”

  He leans over the table even closer. My heart beats harder, sensation swelling everywhere, but the space between my legs a fucking furnace.

  He looks at me and it’s like nothing else exists except the two of us here in this moment. “To reveal all my secrets, of course.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SPENCER

  Backlit by the morning sun, Grace Everett looks fucking incredible as she stalks her way down the stacks. She’s an angel. By all accounts I’m Lucifer incarnate. Match made in heaven? Hardly.

  Arms crossed, she keeps her distance and waits. “Well, what’s so important up here in this moth farm that I had to drag myself out of a perfectly warm bed and journey all the way out here for? Work’s going to die when they look at my travel expenses.”

  Warm bed. I imagine the two of us wrapped up together, my hand on her hip, shifting south. “I am a member of the Chaos Club.”

  She’s not impressed. There’s a chocolate strand of hair hanging down the side of her face I want to stroke. “That’s no secret. Everyone knows about the,” she puts her fingers up for inverted commas, “‘secret’ Chaos Club. I mean the current prime minister and half the heads of state were members.”

  I nod. “It’s no secret, you’re right, but what I’m about to show you is. Observe.”

  I crouch and run a finger along the spines of books on the shelf.

  Grace spots the shelf’s subject. “Twentieth Century Feminism? What makes you think I’m a feminist?”

  I look up to her, can’t help but let my eyes wander up her bare legs to the shadow under her skirt. What I wouldn’t give for sixty seconds in there. “What makes you think everything is about you?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Just get on with it.”

  She can only play the ‘ifreakinhateyourgutsyoumysoginisticprick’ card for so long. She’ll come around. They always do. I know precisely where the book is, but I draw it out, searching and relishing the way her foot taps beside me with impatience.

  I stop. “Ah, here it is.” I draw the book out and blow dust off the cover.

  Grace moves beside me, a floral scent following that causes my cock to twitch in my pants. She reads the cover. “Body Politics: Feminist Anthrophony Made Simple. Really? What’s your plan here, Spencer? Bore me to death before you have your way with me?”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Quiet. I’d certainly prefer fucking you alive, but besides that, what I’m about to show you now is beyond secretive. For the members of the Chaos Club, this book I hold in my hands is the Bible.”

  I flick through the pages until I come to what I want.

  She scoots closer, her perfume filling my nostrils, the heat of her body a physical force as she brushes against me. “Number Fifty-Five: The Peacock.”

  She reads closely. I have her attention now.

  She looks up to me. “What the hell? This is what you did to me the other day.” She flicks through more pages. “The Liam Neeson, The Wandering Eye, The Opposing Side? These are all plays, aren’t they? This is a book full of ways to pick up women.”

  I plaster on a smile, kind of proud. “Yes.”

  She prods the page. “This is fucking disgraceful.”

  I close the book. “But you know the funny thing? The plays work.”

  “Your big peacock penis maneuver didn’t work on me, did it?”

  “Early days.”

  She leans back against the shelf, diffused sunlight turning the side of her hair to caramel. It spans over her chest, her full breasts begging for my hands… my mouth. “You don’t honestly think you have a chance with me, do you?”

  I close the book and slide it back into position, standing opposite her with my hands in my pockets and head gazing down into her eyes. “Do you honestly think you have a chance with me?”

  She puckers her lips briefly before replying. “What could you possibly offer me except cheesy pickup lines and fancy dinners?”

  “You call McDonalds fancy? Wait ’til I take you to La Gavroche.”

  “Come on. I really want to know. What can you offer me? How could you ever improve my life? You’ve done your research, know everything about me. Tell me.”

  I can’t believe how unstuck I feel in this
situation. Most every girl I meet simply stands there and smiles while I speak. I could talk about changing commodity prices in China and they’d still be there an hour later grinning. Not this Grace character. I smile again, but it’s natural. It’s not a put on. I’m smiling because of how surreal this feels. “Experiences.”

  She scoffs. “Experiences? Like the one you gave me in your college dorm room, or perhaps the one you gave to yet another pub last night with your buddies?”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  She’s so fucking hot when she’s annoyed, eyebrows twitching slightly, brow furrowed. “I’m a journalist. It’s my job.”

  “The pub was well compensated. They always are.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I’m losing her. Bring out the big guns. “I propose a truce. Let me show you London, the real London. You’ve come all this way. It would be ungentlemanly for me to send you home with such a somber impression of our fine city.”

  She’s thinking about it. Still, those sky-filled eyes give nothing away. She’s as much of a mystery to me as twentieth-century feminist anthropology.

  Her arms are still crossed, but she relaxes. “Okay. I’ve got nothing better to do. Show me this great London then, and it sure as hell better not start with your bedroom.”

  I put my hands up in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Where are you staying?”

  “The Savoy.”

  “Perfect. We’ll start there.”

  Little does she know she’s fallen for number Ninety-Nine: The Wizard of Oz.

  *

  Unlike my usual fare, Grace doesn’t squeal with glee when I pull the cover off my bike.

  “Do you even know what this is?” I ask.

  She’s got her hands in her pockets, still uneasy around me. That’s about to change. “I know what a motorcycle is, Spencer.”

  “It’s a Vincent Black Shadow, a true British classic.”

  “What, is that supposed to make my pants magically fly off?”

  “You’re wearing a skirt,” I note.

  “Perhaps you’re more observant than I thought.”

  I toss her a helmet. “Hop on.”

  “Sure.”

  She pulls the helmet on and swings onto the bike before me, one hand on the throttle, the other extended. “Keys?”