Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  Marcus ejects the shells, inspects the barrels. “Seems fine to me, sir. Perhaps you simply need more practice?” And both of them lose it, laughing at my expense.

  I tell them, colorfully, my thoughts on the matter, another clay biting the dust above.

  Marcus places the gun down, turning his attention to me. He doesn’t have a pretty face. Hell, it looks like his head’s been through the spin cycle a couple of times. “All is not lost, sir.”

  I look up at the sky, cotton-candy clouds shifting. “All the practice in the world isn’t going to improve my aim, Marcus.”

  “I wasn’t talking about shooting, sir.”

  It takes me a moment to clue in. “You heard her. She wants nothing to do with me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “And who made you the love doctor?”

  “The blind cannot see what is before them.”

  “And what is that?”

  “She is keen on you, sir, playing hard to get.”

  “I suppose your time banging bar maids in the service has given you a sixth sense for such things?”

  He smiles at this. “Yes, sir.”

  I turn. “Richard, what do you think?”

  He steps away from the trap. “I think Marcus is right. Your goose, as they say, is not cooked yet.”

  These twits love their clichés. I look back up at the sky and take off my glasses, the light far too bright even without a hangover. Maybe I am giving up too easily? It’s not done, after all, not a final thing. We’re to meet at my apartment this afternoon. That’s my chance.

  I still cannot decipher precisely why she’s having this effect on me. The closer I get to her, the more I lose control of myself. My heart beats harder, my mouth goes dry. I turn from a pillar of charm into a blubbering idiot, but the kiss… Everything about it was right. She wasn’t trying to suck my face off like most girls I’ve been with. It wasn’t a power play. No, it was even and measured, a simmer set to boil at any moment. I snap out of it before I get too hard, not that it would be the first time these two have seen Big Ben so engaged. I’m quite sure after their time’s up they’ll go on to each write tell-alls and make fucking millions.

  “Marcus, when’s she due at the apartment?”

  He checks his watch, a simple CWC G10. “One hour, sir.”

  “Well then, I hope you two brought your feather dusters.”

  *

  If only the paps sitting outside could have seen it—three grown men rushing about the apartment dusting, scrubbing, throwing things under beds. We took what could very well be considered a health hazard and turned it into a respectable residence in under twenty minutes.

  The doorbell rings as I dump the last load of clothes into the laundry. Marcus pops his head around the door. “Shall I?”

  I stand up, brushing off my trousers. “Yes, fine.”

  I head out into the living room, spotting a large black dildo peeking out from under the sofa, a birthday gift from the Club.

  “Shit.” I reach down and grab it, intending to throw it into the umbrella stand, but it’s too late. Marcus pulls the front door open and Grace steps in, assessing the scene. That is, me standing in the middle of the room with a giant, King Kong-sized dildo in hand, Richard returning from the kitchen still wearing rubber gloves and Marcus looking equally bemused from the door.

  For a second or two we all stand there frozen. I’m not even sure Grace is going to come in, but she does. I drop the dildo and kick it back under the sofa.

  Grace stops. “What the hell is going on here?”

  I start to explain, but she puts her hand up. “Please, it’s twenty-sixteen. You guys can do what you like.”

  “It was a gift,” I blurt out, Marcus tossing me a ‘WTF?’ look from Grace’s back.

  “You must have really special friends.” Grace places her handbag down on the nearest chair. It’s not brand name, looks more like something suited to Aunt Lucy at the funny farm.

  I look to the others for support, but they’ve got sweet FA in this situation.

  Own it. I walk over to her. “Okay, so I own a huge black dildo. That’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

  She’s cracking up, halfway to hysterics. “No, no, of course not.”

  “And what if I told you it was not, in fact, a dildo, but a priceless post-modernist art piece?”

  She loses it, slapping her hands on her thighs. She’s laughing so hard I’m scared she’s going to into a fit of some sort. Even Richard and Marcus can’t keep their composure.

  Grace puts her hands out while I look down at her with my own on my hips, my stance entirely too feminine.

  “Okay, okay,” she says, “forget the super-dong. What are we doing now?”

  Marcus chimes in. “Giant gang bang around the corner, didn’t you know?”

  I’m so fucking shocked I can’t close my mouth, but—thank sweet God—Grace gets the joke, once again thrown into jerky, fitful laughter. She’s bent over, struggling to breathe.

  “Shall we get going?” I offer.

  Marcus salutes me. “Yes, sir.” He gives Grace his arm. She takes it. “Shall we?”

  She pokes her tongue out at me. “We shall, kind sir,” and even though I know it’s all in jest and fun, I cannot help a searing surge of jealousy channel through me.

  Grace spins around. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Your Highness?”

  Here we go. “And what would that be?”

  She’s smiling as she says it. “Your dignity. I think you left it under the sofa there.”

  And with that it starts all over again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GRACE

  All I’m thinking as we sit side by side in the back of the Rolls is what a bitch it would be to clean ketchup out of this beige leather—Big Macs, animal fries, thick El Diablos… I’m thinking of everything and anything to keep my mind off the hottie McTotty slice of man perfection beside me, asshole that he is—sort of, maybe… Fuck, I don’t know what to think any more. I can’t even trust my own brain. It’s been replaced by my vagina.

  You should know better than anyone how the media can twist and distort things.

  I do. Doesn’t mean he isn’t everything they say he is and more.

  Curiosity gets the better of me. “Where are we going?”

  Spencer looks away from his window, smiling. His voice is raspy, thick with the kind of timbre that makes my toes curl. “To visit my brother, Alexander. I do so enjoy our little get-togethers.”

  I can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic or not. You don’t know him.

  We arrive in a narrow, cobblestone street, home to some of the wealthiest, most powerful individuals in London, the Prime Minister inclusive.

  I notice there’s a small throng of paparazzi gathered outside Prince Alexander’s apartment. They press their cameras against the windows as we drive by. I scoot low in the seat.

  Spencer laughs, tapping the glass. “Don’t worry. It’s anti-reflective. They won’t see a thing.

  “And if they could? How would you explain me?”

  He ponders on this, finger raised to his chin, the Thinker. “Social media strategist?”

  The Palace shut down Spencer’s Instagram account last year. His ‘cock in a sock’ selfie saw to that. “Makes sense.”

  The Rolls drives through a gate beside the apartment. We come around to a backyard with high fences far from the prying eyes of the shutterbugs out front.

  Spencer’s barely out the door before he’s bowled over by Alexander’s two toddlers, Prince Gregory and Princess Elisa, two and four respectively. “Uncle Spenny! Uncle Spenny!” Elisa enthuses, climbing on top of him. “Look, Daddy! I’m king of the castle!”

  Alexander walks over from the back of the house in a blood red cashmere sweater, white collared shirt underneath. His hair is receding. He looks far older than Spencer even though they are less than a year apart, worn down by duty of parenthood perhaps. Behind him comes his wife, Lizzy, as th
e British press call her. She hasn’t put a foot wrong.

  “Queen of the castle,” Alexander corrects Elisa. “Coming out as a ‘king’ would be quite the scandal, wouldn’t it, brother?”

  Spencer scoops up the two children underarm, who squirm and giggle with glee. “It would.”

  Alexander spots me. “And this must be Miss Everett, from New York.”

  I’m surprised Spencer’s mentioned me. Alexander takes my hand. His grip is solid, firm, a well-rehearsed maneuver. “A pleasure. An article to put my rebellious brother on the straight and narrow, I presume?”

  “Something like that,” I reply sheepishly, oddly star struck.

  Alexander turns, welcoming Lizzy over. “My wife, Elizabeth.”

  Lizzy is unique in that she wasn’t born into royalty. Her family is wealthy, but not well connected. She met the prince at a sailing event in Australia of all places.

  “How do you do?” she says, voice high.

  “Fine, thank you.” A flash of Spencer holding that dildo blows into my head and I almost lose it, managing to regain composure and keep my lips pressed tightly together.

  “I do hope Spencer hasn’t been too much of a handful so far,” Alexander continues, watching his brother chase the kids around the yard with arm extended.

  I picture Spencer’s cock, my lips wrapped around it, his finger on my clit. It’s all imagination, but I know that kiss was not. If only you knew. “Not at all.”

  “Shall we go inside?” says Lizzy. “I’m freezing my tits off out here.”

  Alexander throws her a disapproving look. “Language, Lizzy.”

  “Do they not say ‘tits’ in America, Grace?”

  I have to clear my throat before replying. “They do, among many other, colorful phrases.”

  Lizzy takes my arm. I never expected her to be this informal. “I love a good curse word, don’t you?” She looks at Alexander. “Though being married to a prude I don’t get many moments to exercise my talents.”

  It’s clear why the public love this couple. They’re so right for each other. Polar opposites in many ways, yes, but perhaps that is their secret. Not to mention their kids are drop-dead gorgeous, the kind of dolls you’d pull off the shelf at Hamleys complete with ruby lips and pincushion hands.

  I watch Spencer play with them. Is this even the same person? He’s so at ease, happy. It’s gold, all of it, precisely the kind of baby-kissing mumbo-jumbo required to pull himself from the media brink—not that he’d care. No, this is all natural. There are no cameras here, no reason for him to perform.

  Except for you.

  Lizzy begins to drag me towards the back of the house. “Inside, inside. Can’t have our prize guest frozen to an ice block on our watch.”

  Inside, a large fireplace is ablaze, the smell of ash, cherry and, higher, thyme, rosemary. My stomach knots. Richard and Marcus have retired upstairs with the nanny and kids, the four of us left downstairs.

  “Drink, Grace?” Alexander offers.

  “Water, thanks.”

  He seems surprised but doesn’t question, ducking off to the kitchen.

  Lizzy lifts a teacup to her lips, blowing across the top before placing it down and speaking. “Spenny hasn’t been divulging all the secrets of my good husband, has he?”

  I look over to Spencer. He seems oddly relaxed, but the moment Alexander reappears, he tightens up. That’s always been my strong suit. I notice these subtleties, the unseen.

  I pick up my glass. I’m not thirsty. I just need something to occupy my hands. How about Big Ben? “Um, no,” I reply, “he’s been forthcoming, but I’m afraid only about himself.”

  Alexander sits, arm around Lizzy, the cover shot. “We should get together some time, Grace, away from my dear brother. I have many, many interesting stories from our childhood I’m sure you’d love to hear.”

  “Alex,” Spencer interjects, loafer on top of his thigh. “I’m sure Grace doesn’t want to hear about our childhood rendition of Macbeth.”

  Spencer, of course, knows how much I love Shakespeare. He’s playing you. Still, my interest is piqued. “Macbeth?”

  Alexander leans over. “’Fair is foul, and foul is fair’—we put on quite the performance for Granny when we were, what, six and seven? Used tomato sauce from the Palace kitchen for blood, all very authentic.”

  I’m glad my phone’s recording. This is the stuff the public needs to hear, though I know it’s not what Amanda wants. No, she’s after something far darker, the kind of dirt you have to head deep into the sewer for. “Sounds great. Who’s Granny?”

  A second later I realize my stupidity.

  Spencer saves me. “The Queen, that would be, though I suppose it does sound a tad infantile to still be calling her Granny, doesn’t it, brother?”

  Who refers to their sibling as ‘brother’? Yet another British quirk I’ve missed.

  “Grace,” starts Alex, “why don’t we turn the tables a little? Tell us about yourself. Are you enjoying London?”

  I look over at Spencer, already growing beet red. Damn it, I can’t help it. My eyes want to be pulled there, pulled to his and never away. “It’s… growing on me.”

  “Spenny hasn’t shown you his willy yet, has he?”

  Lizzy swats Alex’s shoulder. “Alex!”

  “Oh, I’m just joking. Of course he has, hasn’t he?”

  I straighten up. “Actually, it was the very first thing he showed me.”

  Alex stiffens. That shut him up. I see Spencer smiling out the corner of my eye. I don’t even know why I’m defending him.

  Spencer changes the subject, keen to move it away from his penis. “Have you heard from our parents lately, brother?”

  Alex clears his throat, picks up his tumbler. He looks so much like his father it’s uncanny. That’s the thing about Spencer. Even in terms of physical appearance he’s the black sheep of the family. “I have not, but I understand we’re all meeting for dinner at the Palace on Sunday.”

  It’s news to me.

  Spencer nods. “We are.”

  Alex once more turns his attention to me. “Can I be honest, Grace?”

  I hold my glass tighter. Any harder and the damn thing’s going to shatter in my fingers. “By all means.”

  “The media is this country cannot be trusted. My brother is guilty of no crime but simply living life to the fullest. He may get a tad too… excited, at times, but the garbage they write… I mean, honestly. No offense, by the way.”

  “None taken. I’m going to put together a fair and measured article. You have my word.” Whatever that’s worth.

  Spencer’s looking at me with, what? Admiration? I don’t want to make eye contact, don’t want him to know he’s chipping away at my defenses.

  Alexander taps the tumbler with his forefinger. “I appreciate that, Grace, I really do. Now, let me tell you about the time Spenny single-handedly brought the Palace’s plumbing system to a halt.”

  *

  As always, Zoe sees right through me.

  “Oh, my god.”

  I play dumb. “What?”

  “Holy fucking hell balls. You’re seeing him, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I snort, the lie completely see-through.

  We’re back at the Savoy. I called her over the minute I arrived back from Prince Alexander’s place.

  The shock and excitement is lighting Zoe’s entire face up. “Yes, yes you are. Are you… fucking him? Having his baby? My god, you could be queen!”

  “Ssshhh,” I caution, looking around like someone’s going to jump from the closet. “Okay, maybe we kissed—maybe. No big deal.”

  She flaps her hands around like one of those inflatable car-lot crazy men. “No big deal?!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  She takes a breath and slumps back into her chair. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “How, when, where?”

  “I don’t have to sit here through forty questions.”

 
She gets sassy. “Um, yes you do. Must I remind you of the time I sat for your lit exam? Huh? Short memory?”

  “That was five years ago. You’re still holding it over my head?”

  “Desperate times and all that.”

  “It just… happened.”

  “Uh-huh. Prince anti-Charming leaned right on over and told you to pucker up, did he?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He’s a player, you know. That’s common knowledge. The sun rises. Prince Spencer is swimming in pussy. It’s a fact.

  “He says I’m different.”

  Zoe laughs. “Oh, man. Can you hear yourself?”

  “He’s not what everyone thinks he is. He’s actually pretty smart.”

  Zoe slaps her forehead. “He must be to pull the wool over your eyes. And, let me guess, he told you he’s never felt like this before as he filled you up with his super-shlong?”

  “We haven’t…”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She nods with understanding. “Ah, yes, the virgin thing. Even Johnathan couldn’t get past that chastity belt of yours, could he? I feel sorry for the first guy down there who realizes he needs a chisel and hammer to get into your pants. You know he’s here, right, in London.”

  Fucking Johnathan. “We bumped into each other, actually, a day or two ago.”

  Zoe jumps back. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. What happened?”

  “What always happens. We talked, fought, and then he picked a fight. He’s probably lying in an emergency room somewhere.”

  “Did you ever find out who it was he was banging?”

  “No.”

  “Fucking bitch.”

  “Amen.”

  “Maybe Spencer’s right then. Maybe you are special.”

  I lick my lips, cast my eyes sideways. I’m a book, wide open.

  Zoe sees it. “You want to lose it to him, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Not with your lips, but hell, I can see it from here how much you want that dick of his. You probably need to wring your panties out right now.”

  “Why does everything always have to be about sex?”

  “Wise words from someone who is yet to experience the magic of a good plowing.”