Damaged Goods

by Damaged Goods (lit)

  Staring out the window of Marco’s SUV, I wondered how she would handle a situation like this. I had to give Cassie credit where she earned plenty. She always charmed her men right out of their pants, and I wanted Marco to leave his at my bedroom door. Then I needed him to decide he liked the roof where he spent the night well enough to afford himself one just like it.

  I could not fathom spending time in a house hardly big enough for a pet, let alone two people at the same time. We drove through Preston Hollow and he turned right, making a sharp turn through the iron gates of the property. He didn’t seem impressed, and yet Mark and Corby paid somewhere around seven million dollars to move me out of their precious Highland Park neighborhood.

  There was a woman behind their generosity. Cassie didn’t want me anywhere near her fellows and for good reason.

  Marco pulled in front of the house, jumped out, opened the passenger door, and held his hand high in an effort to ward off members of the press. “No questions, please.”

  I flashed the cameras a huge smile and blew a few kisses to reporters I recognized. Oh yes, I knew how to step right into the role of prima donna.

  Marco escorted me inside. Like a perfect gentleman, he helped me out of a knit sweater, and his hands rested on my shoulders long enough for his fingertips to scrape over my collarbone as he removed the soft pastel blue material. “Nice,” he said, but his lips never met skin.

  I don’t think I expected to feel his tantalizing mouth against my nape since he already made things pretty clear. He represented a significant challenge instead of the other way around.

  Walking toward the wet bar in the center of the living room, I glanced back before pouring myself a drink. “Would you like one?” I teased.

  “No, thank you,” he said, loosening his tie and shrugging out of his jacket.

  At the very least, he planned to stay for a while. I must’ve earned a few more minutes of his precious time, so things moved along at a good pace, all differences considered.

  “Are you hungry? You didn’t finish your dinner.”

  “Want the truth?” he asked, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes. “I had a dinner date before I came over tonight.”

  “You mean I’m on a date with a man who dishes out sloppy seconds?”

  “I’m not giving you first or seconds tonight, Suzy.”

  I’d gathered as much. “I see,” I said, pouting. “So someone else has your eye?”

  “Wanna know where I went first?”

  “Let me guess,” I said, trying to think of someone who shared my reputation for going after the new rookies in town.

  “You won’t,” he said. “Never in a million years.”

  “Okay, then, tell me.”

  “Cassie Teller,” he said, smirking. “A lovely woman.”

  My lips parted but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Cassie hit a new low. I quickly closed my mouth. Typical, I decided. She had become so predictable. Only, I didn’t see her making such a bold play for Marco. She already had three men in her bed, and all of them acted possessive to a fault.

  “Yeah, she, uh…” he chuckled and shook his head. “She invited me over for dinner so we could have a nice chat while the kids whined and her fellows supported her voiced concerns.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “She’s an excellent cook.”

  “Bullshit. Steve does most of the cooking over there.”

  “The guys said she prepared every dish.”

  “What’d she serve? Peanut butter and jelly with a side of sliced apples?”

  “No, we had sautéed mushrooms drizzled over tender steak tips and—”

  “I really don’t care,” I snapped. “You know, I went to a lot of trouble and prepared a nice meal for the two of us and you barely touched yours.”

  “Went to a lot of trouble, did you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Donovan’s Dining Room didn’t deliver to your door?”

  Damn her for telling the one man I wanted all of my secrets. I planned to have a serious chat with Cassie Teller, and if Marco left early enough, she might hear from me in the next few minutes.

  “I can’t cook,” I finally admitted.

  “I know,” he said. “But I can, and if you stick with me, I’ll teach you.”

  “What happened to playing the game?”

  He leaned over and took my hand. “You wanted to give those reporters outside something to talk about, right?”

  “Absolutely.” But I wanted the man much more than the gossip or even the front page spotlight.

  He tilted my chin and his lips brushed across mine. “Then close your eyes, little woman, and let me take the lead.”

  As quickly as his mouth touched mine, he backed away. I think I remained in pucker-position because he smiled, chuckled, and then said, “Suzy, you’re a beautiful woman, and I fully intend to have you, but when I take you, it’ll be on my terms and without an audience.”

  “So that’s the way you roll, is it?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “Now, first things first,” he continued, walking over to my wet bar. “From what I understand, you have a drinking problem.”

  He opened a very expensive bottle of scotch and dumped it out in the small sink located in the center of the bar. “Think of tonight as a new beginning.”

  “What the holy hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked, marching over to the well-stocked bar and staring at the brown fluid as it swirled down the small drain.

  “Careful now, Suzy,” he said, pointing toward the windows. “The cameras are rolling, you know.”

  I gritted my teeth and watched as he dumped the contents of another three bottles. “For the love of—”

  “Don’t you dare say God,” he interrupted. “God didn’t have anything to do with your decision to drink yourself into a stupor twenty-four hours a day, and neither did I, but since you seem to have your sights set on me, pretty lady, I plan to reform you.”

  “Reform me?” I threw my head back and laughed. Hell, I had to giggle about something. The arrogant bastard discarded over one thousand dollars in perfectly good liquor. What next? The wine?

  Bending down to the small refrigerator, he said, “Let’s see what you have in here.”

  Two bottles of Cristal Champagne for starters. “Okay, look. You have to stop.” Shit, I thought, before I vocally complained. I knew what was at risk. The look on Marco’s face told pretty much everything I needed to know.

  He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip and with a hint of seduction, he said, “What’s it going to be Suzy? Is this booze really worth it to you? See, if I’m with a woman, especially an older woman, then I want her sober. I want her to know what she’s feeling when I’m between her legs and she says ‘You have to stop’ because she’s so turned on she can’t wait to feel me taking her faster and harder.

  “Suzy, what I don’t want is a woman who is the joke of every PFC locker room because she’s passed out within seconds of picking up yet another football player after spring training.”

  “You have no right to talk to me in this manner.”

  He walked away from the bar and stood in front of me. “No, you had no right. You should have stopped and thought about all consequences and outcomes before you called up your favorite gossip columnist and came up with a startling way to meet me. You had no right to call up my agent and try to arrange a meeting after you conjured up the biggest public lie in the history of sports. You are the one who had no right to drag me into your mess and then expect me to come in and what—take you to bed on the first date and fall for you like that idiot Frankie McCloskey?”

  “Get out,” I said firmly.

  “Now that would be the easy thing to do, wouldn’t it? We’ve been seen together, photographed, and now you want to kick me out and play up the part of poor little Suzy. I don’t think so, doll. Not this time.”

  “I said, get out!” I picked up a bottle of Cristal a
nd quickly looked behind the bar. I’d have to squeeze by this giant before I’d wrap my hand around a glass. He didn’t appear too interested in moving.

  “What if I don’t want to go? What if your little plan paid off and all I can think about now is how I want to run my hands all over your body?” He licked his lips nice and slow. Then he said, “What if I can’t wait to take you upstairs and have my way with you?”

  I glanced down. Good Lord, what a bulge.

  “Oh, it’s hard all right. I’m a man, Suzy. A man who doesn’t want to be toyed with but a man who could just as easily strip you down to nothing and have meaningless sex with you because I can.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

  “I know man after man can go to your bed without a lot of effort. As long as he has a team owner from the PFC signing his paychecks, he’s welcome to stop in and play under your sheets whenever you don’t have another fellow already visiting. Frankly, I gotta tell ya, I’m surprised you don’t invite several of the guys at once, since your buddies over at the Tellers seem to enjoy the gang-bangs.”

  The more he talked, the angrier I became. I wasn’t sure how to handle him, and men seldom puzzled me. They were all the same. Marco, however, seemed different.

  I missed something in his smooth Southern gentleman demeanor when I watched him on the sports shows and listened to one interview after the next. Something wasn’t right with Marco Giovanni. Behind his chiseled cheeks, perfect jawline, and blissfully dark eyes, a man with a whole lot of personal issues resided. Why sure, that had to be it. Marco was the one with a few loose screws.

  “You’re a control freak,” I announced.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not a freak, but I can sure get a little freaky with the right woman. I’m not controlling, nor will I be controlled. And I am no woman’s pawn.

  “I’m not your ex, and I won’t hop in your bed and let you use me for target practice. I’m the real deal,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “You’re a sexy woman, Suzy, and I’d love nothing more than to fuck some sense into you. But that’s not what you need. You need some stability and maybe even rehab. You need some serious help, and when you’re ready for it, you call me.”

  Shaken by his lecture, I didn’t realize he left the room until I heard the disturbing noise of squealing tires right outside my window. Furious, I hurried behind the bar and quickly poured myself a drink.

  With trembling hands, I sipped on a glass of bourbon whiskey. I noticed the reporters on the patio, moving closer and closer with their cameras rolling, trying to capture the deserted diva, the sot with her bottles lined up across the bar. The empty containers served as a reminder. I let a man come in and take away what once belonged to me. My independence, once coveted, seemed barely within my reach.

  “Good God, Suzy, get it together,” I said, drawing the shades and closing the curtains. I strolled back to the bar and poured another drink. I raised the tumbler to my lips and then slammed the glass against the marble-top bar. “Damn,” I said aloud, staring at the untouched liquor. “He got to me.”

  Chapter Five

  Five Weeks Later

  Season Opener, Dallas Rascals Stadium

  I walked into the stadium feeling like an outsider. Thanks to Mark and a stipulation in our divorce settlement, I retained privileged access to the players’ suites. In my mind, I truly belonged there, but for some reason the crowded stadium offered more appeal.

  With my reputation, a lot of the PFC wives and girlfriends probably preferred my absence. I wouldn’t be missed in the VIP corridor. With every intention of sitting there—if for no other reason but to intimidate Cassie Teller—I simply couldn’t bring myself to board the elevator leading to the executive level. I would’ve felt vindicated if I could’ve reminded Cassie of a few very important facts. After she warned Marco to stay away from me, I owed her.

  I still remembered what it felt like to make love to two of the three men now sharing her bed. I wanted to remind her that as often as Mark held me in his arms, he, too, must’ve recalled what it felt like to wake up in my bed.

  Instead of heading upstairs, I chatted with Tom, one of the older security guards who stood next to the elevator. Right before kick-off, I selected a vacant club seat and took advantage of a no-show.

  The team ran onto the field, and I noticed a straggler, a player bringing up the rear when he typically took the lead. Corby hobbled forward on crutches.

  I stood with the rest of the crowd and cheered for our Rascals. I considered asking a man with a Dallas Rascals flag if he knew what happened to our star quarterback, but before opportunity presented itself, the introduction of the starting line-up began.

  “Marco Giovanni is making his debut as the starting quarterback due to an injury Corby Teller received during pre-season.” The sports announcer didn’t elaborate or provide details.

  Corby stood on the sidelines, shaking hands and slapping backs, waving to fans and occasionally signing an autograph. A player’s player, if Corby had a career-changing injury, he wouldn’t have bothered socializing. Corby was one hundred percent attitude when injuries jeopardized hefty paychecks.

  I turned to the right and looked up. I could see the owner’s suite, the picture windows showcasing the upper echelon of the sports world. The women who dressed the part and the men of substance, the fellows who probably had a lot of money riding on this game, moved to the front of the room, anticipating the game start. They looked permanently pressed to the large picture windows.

  The Rascals won the coin toss, and after the kick-off, Marco jogged onto the field. He looked like a natural born leader, like he knew every play the Rascals ever ran. After the ball snap, he threw to his wide receiver. Terrell Marone ran twenty yards leaving them with a first down and fifty yards to go, not a bad beginning.

  I glanced up again. I should’ve been in that suite with a martini in hand, discussing the new shopping venues, explaining to the other wives and girlfriends where I purchased my latest pantsuit. Instead, I sat among the common folks, the people who didn’t have any clue about nine-hundred dollar Gucci shoes on sale for seven hundred and fifty bucks at Dressing for Success. I glanced down at my high heels and wondered what kind of woman paid such ridiculous prices for uncomfortable footwear.

  My wandering mind revisited the little house near Highland Park. I wondered if Marco still anticipated living in the inexpensive neighborhood, especially after leading the Rascals. I thought about the certain expectations fans held. Didn’t he care that his fans expected to see him living in the lap of luxury?

  The hum around the stadium grew, then the rumble. “Touchdown! Rascals!”

  Immediately, I stood with the rest of the fans supporting our team. Glancing toward the goal post, I saw why the excitement held at an all-time high. Watching with a certain element of pride, though unexplained, I observed the offensive line players lifting Marco high above their heads in a moment of true celebration. The man of the hour, Marco Giovanni—the Italian Stallion—made a name for himself right then and there, running the ball forty-plus yards to secure the first touchdown of the game.

  I shook my head and then looked at poor old smiling Tom. He winked and I waved. A few seconds later, he stood beside me. “That young man sure is something special, Suzy.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “You’d better hold tight to that one.”

  I watched Marco enjoying his newfound fame on the sidelines, turning up his cup and looking toward the suites. Maybe he thought I waited there beyond the layers of people crowded together, cheering for him every step of the way. Maybe I should’ve gone upstairs after all. Then, Marco would’ve known I was there to support him.

  No, I thought, what a crazy notion. We had one date and the evening ended in disaster.

  He wasn’t searching for me. If anything, he had someone else there anticipating his victories, celebrating his first touchdown, his first score in PFC football.

  �
��I’m not seeing him.”

  Tom shrugged and pointed to the huge screen located above the scoreboard. “Well, at least he sees you.”

  I was in living color. Damn those boys who scanned the crowd and looked for familiar or interesting faces. I looked away and Tom said, “That’s not going to work. If I had to guess, your boy wanted to know when you arrived. I’ve sat through a whole series of questions about you, Suzy Q. Someone has a great deal of interest in you.”

  “Really?” I asked, glancing back at the monitor only to discover I remained in focus. One cameraman insisted on making sure everyone in the stadium knew where I sat.

  “Yep,” he said. “Seems the old boy is quite interested in you.”

  “He wants to change me.”

  “Maybe you need some minor adjustments, a few modifications here and there. I already see a significant one.”

  I looked down on the field, and Marco pointed at me. It looked like he mouthed the words, For you.

  My heart raced forward and I waved. God help me, he was a handsome thing.

  Quickly, I turned around to ask Tom what he meant by his remark about a noted change, but he was guarding the elevator again, checking VIP tickets and making sure everyone who headed upstairs had a legitimate reason. Tom probably liked the fact that I had a VIP pass but instead chose a seat that clearly didn’t belong to me.

  At half time, the no-show appeared with his ticket in hand, “Excuse me, I think you’re in my spot.”

  I didn’t ask to see his ticket. I just said, “Yes, and I really enjoyed sitting here. Thank you.”

  I meant it sincerely, but he muttered a few comments. Rather than retaliate like I once might have considered, I went to say farewell to Tom.

  “Why don’t you stay until after the game?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m going home to a big bowl of popcorn and a tall glass of iced tea.”

  “Want me to tell him you stopped by?”

  I laughed. “I think everyone here saw me thanks to the camera crew.”