by Ava Ashley
“Sloane.”
“Sloane. How about I take you home so you can get cleaned up? Then you can get in touch with Logan and straighten this whole mess out.”
Mess? Emotion twinges my face. I’m not sure, but I think I see his hard eyes soften. They melt from a soul-sucking black back to a warm, chocolate brown.
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant,” he offers apologetically.
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine, really. You’re not entirely wrong. But, I’ve been in bigger messes before. I always manage to work my way out of it.”
I can’t tell which one of us I’m trying to convince.
“So, where do you live?” he asks.
“Elk Grove. Lakemont Drive.”
He puts the Escalade in drive. “I’m just gonna put the windows down. Vanillaroma? Not quite cutting it.”
He finger-flicks the air freshener.
I manage half a smile.
The ride toward the house is almost as quiet as the ride from the stadium, except this time the wind sings loudly through the vented windows. My head was popping with questions.
Why isn’t your brother public knowledge? Why was he pretending to be you? Why are you so damned secretive? I steal a veiled look through drooping lashes at the fucking beautiful enigma sitting next to me.
What are you hiding?
Before I can even begin to delve into the possible answers, I almost jab my index finger up his nose as I point across his broadly muscled chest.
“This is my street,” I alert him. “Second house on the left.”
He turns the Escalade down the road, rolling to a slow stop in front of a simple, single-family dwelling.
“Just you?” he asks as I step out of the car.
I smile wryly and put a small hand on my belly. “For now. My mom bought this place. Before...before she passed away. We moved around. A lot. She pretty much worked herself to death to make sure she could finally give me a real home.”
I cast a forlorn look back over my shoulder then turns back to Lennox. “Sometimes, I think I’d rather just have her, ya know?”
Something passes over his face. I can’t tell if it’s sorrow or regret. At any rate, it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. He nods in silent agreement.
“So, um, sorry, again, for the whole misunderstanding. And for throwing up in your car. You can send me the bill, you know.”
He waves me off. “Forget about it. I’ll just snag the Buick endorsement from under Peyton and score a new ride. I like the Enclave better anyway.”
He shoots me a last look. “You going to be okay?”
“I hope so.”
He twitches the corner of his full lips, like he’s having a spontaneous thought. He pulls his cell out of his back pocket. “Quick. What’s your number?”
My brow furrows suspiciously. “Why?”
“Look, my brother’s my brother, and I love him, but sometimes he needs to get his head out of his own ass. You have any problems, you call me.”
“No more impromptu press conferences?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “No more press conferences.”
“310-555-8483,” I concede.
He punches in the digits and hits send. My phone dings.
“Done.” He pockets his phone.
“And, if you can keep the whole ‘twin brother’ thing on the D.L.,” he hesitates. “Well, I’d owe you.”
I cock my head to the side, my internal bloodhound scratching at a story like a bothersome flea. But, something in his eyes makes me give myself a mental swat across the nose.
“Yeah. Sure.” The agreement elicits a bright, if slightly crooked smile. Parts of me puddle.
“So, he continues. “If you’re sure you’re going to be okay tonight, I think I’m going to go home a take a shower.”
I try to hide the involuntarily shudder that courses through me as I think of him naked. Just how identical are identical twins?
“That’s probably not a bad idea. And, yes, I’ll be fine. I’ll clean up. Call Logan in the morning. What the hell else could go wrong in less than twenty-four hours?” I laugh.
*****
I could get lost.
That’s what could go wrong.
Like I said before, my life had always had direction. A carefully planned road map designed with the singular, focused purpose of getting me successfully from Point A to B. Graduate high school with a four-point-oh grade point average. Get into a good college. Get my journalism degree. Graduate school and a Reuters Journalism Fellowship. Pulitzer.
Lennox Hardy was not on the map.
He shouldn’t have even been a day trip worth considering.
So, why is my brain suddenly off-roading?
The hot water cascades down and around my bare breasts, swirling in an S-shape toward my navel and over the slightly rounded hump of my belly, then down. Down to where my own desire is generating an inferno far hotter than the ninety-nine degrees of the water. An involuntary groan escapes my lips.
Why did he have to be so damned hot?
On the surface, he looked just like his brother. Same square jaw. Same straight, aquiline nose. Well, maybe not quite as straight. He is a football player after all. But, the resemblance ended there.
Logan was perfect. Perfect manners. Perfect teeth dazzling in a perfect smile. Hair perfectly gelled into place.
Perfectly...cold.
I shivered under the hot water.
He had to be cold to try and pass himself off as his football star brother. What kind of asshole pulls that kind of trick? Why hadn’t I noticed it right off the bat? I’m a reporter. I should have. I’m trained to observe and record details. Figures. Facts.
Another groan escapes my lips.
Fact. I can’t stop thinking about Lennox Hardy.
His eyes, alert, bright with the calculating observance of a cautious beast. The twitch of wild working in his strong jaw. Like he was constantly fighting to keep some surging animal from bursting loose. A ripple of coursing energy pulsing with every flex of his well-developed muscles. Like a sinewy jungle cat poised between flight or fight. Raw power.
My hand drifts to the throbbing kernel nestled in the folds between my legs.
The perfect red of my painted toes grips the bottom of the stall...just as my cell phone rings from its perch on the vanity.
Dammit!
Irritated, I try to ignore it. Sia’s Cheap Thrills rings insistently. Note to self. Change that ringtone.
I sharply twist off the water and shove the polyvinyl shower curtain to the side. I reach for the fluffy, white towel hanging on the nearby bath hook and hop from the shower stall. Up almost becomes down and vice-versa as my wet feet slide out from under me and my towel goes flying. I catch myself on the open seat of the toilet, face in the bowl, a position I’m starting to become incredibly familiar with. My hand fumbles on top of the vanity, searching for the phone. I grab it and pull it toward my face. Crap! Five voicemails? Screw it, I’d get to them later. I hit the accept button.
“Armstrong,” I snap as professionally as I can muster, dripping wet and naked.
“Wow. Considering twenty minutes ago you thought I was the father of your child, I would have thought we were at least on a first name basis by now.” Lennox’s deep baritone filters through the phone.
“Lennox!” I practically yelp. I scramble to pull myself into a more upright position.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no. You just got me wet.” The hideous words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Really?” I can almost hear his eyebrow lift high over that twinkling brown eye.
I smack my own forehead. “That’s not what I meant. I just got out of the shower and I’m naked.”
Jesus, Sloane! Get a grip!
“My favorite dress code,” he banters back. I feel a flush creeping across my chest and up my neck. I can’t tell if it’s motivated by desire or embarrassment. I mean, why did he have to
call now of all times. Come to think of it, why did he even call?
“Why did you call, Lennox?”
“You gave me your number, remember?” he states matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, but what do you need?”
There’s an unusual silence on the other end of the line. You would have thought I’d asked him the meaning of life, or something.
“You,” his voice husks in a throaty whisper. My heart skips an uncharacteristic beat. Suddenly, he clears his throat mightily.
“You didn’t ask for Logan’s number,” he continues his thought. Of course, what was I thinking? Life isn’t a Cinderella story. Besides, I had enough chutzpah to be my own damn Princess Charming.
“Oh, yeah,” I throw out. “That would be helpful.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Since you thought he was me and all.”
“Right. Come to think of it, I guess I don’t even know his last name. I suppose it’s Hardy, like yours?” I suggest.
“It’s Masten. Logan Masten,” he clips.
Hm, I think. Twins. With different last names. And a relationship at least one of them would like to keep under wraps. That damned bloodhound was starting to howl.
“Yeah. Okay,” I reply. “Logan Masten. Give me a second to find something to write on.”
I scramble to my feet and into my bedroom. I flop onto the crisply-made bed, trying not to think about how proud Ma would be.
“Perfect hospital corners, Slo-Poke.” I can hear her voice echo in my head. I shake my head and grab a cocktail napkin leftover from that fateful night at the Senator’s fundraiser. I grab the Mont Blanc pen Frank had given me when I got my Masters, and poised the inked tip over the napkin.
“Shoot.”
He hesitates, just for a moment, then gives me the number. “858-555-0177.”
I repeat it back to him.
“Right,” he confirms. “And Sloane?”
“Yeah?”
“Logan’s no prince, but if he acts like a total douchebag, call me. I’ll knock the shit out of him.”
A slight chuckle escapes my lips. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah. I know. My arm’s still a little sore.”
The line beeps, announcing a second call.
“Damn. That’s my other line, Lennox. I gotta run. But, listen. Thanks. You’re an okay guy. For a jock.”
“And you’re not so bad yourself. For press.”
It’s the first genuine smile that graces my face in a while. Part of me doesn’t want to hang up the phone. But, the line beeps again, insistent.
“Okay. Gotta go. Bye.” I just barely catch his goodbye as I click over to the other line.
“Sloane Armstrong,” I announce.
“Sloane!” It’s Emma. No. Scratch that. It’s Five-Alarm Emma. “Sloane! Sloane! Sloane!”
I sit a little straighter on the edge of the bed. “Emma! Slow down! I can hardly understand you. What’s going on?”
Whatever’s going on, it has my best friend a blubbery, hiccupping mess.
“Oh, Sloane! It’s terrible. It’s all over the newsroom. I’m so sorry.”
All over the newsroom?
My hand goes instinctually to my belly. How? I can’t understand it. I practically just found out myself! My brain rewinds rapidly through the events of the last few days. That’s when I remember my conversation with Emma in the newsroom. When she announced...
“I’m having Lennox Hardy’s baby!” I finished my own thought.
“What?” Emma stopped her crying long enough to interject. “This has nothing to do with that. Sloane. Have you even listened to your voicemail? Dennison’s been trying to get hold of you all afternoon. Sloane...you’re fired.”
Chapter 4
Lennox
I am fired. Fired the fuck up!
It’s going on two-thirty in the morning at the Omnia after-party. At least that’s what my bleary eyes read on my TAG Heuer through the tequila-soaked haze of the last two and a half hours. Two-thirty or five-thirty. It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. In heaven, time is irrelevant, and on the rooftop of Omnia, we are fucking gods. Every leather chair, every booth, every inch of slate tile is filled with my teammates and beautiful women ready to serve them – in whatever position is called for. Except for Pratt, of course. His wife had him in the car and going at it before they had even left the stadium parking lot. There’s a list of guys ready to give him the red-ass for that one.
We all deserved some celebration. Yeah. Sure. The diehards were probably bitching – it was only a pre-season game. But screw ‘em. We beat the Bushmasters with pure blood, sweat, and tears. Now, to stay in the game, we had to stay hot.
No matter what it took.
But, that’s next week. Right now, Kanye’s pumping through the five-foot speakers. Lights are pulsing. What was it good ol’ Dad used to say when he wasn’t too drunk to string three words together? Oh, yeah. Wine, women, and song!
We had the tunes, but you could keep the wine. I’ll take a shot of Hornito’s over a full-bodied Cabernet any day of the week. And I’ll definitely take it off the full-body of the 38DD blonde who’s offering her bare belly up for body shots.
It’s the reporter’s fault. You didn’t stick a cork in Kilauea and not expect the damned thing to blow. And the way the pressure was building in my internal boiler, I seriously hoped that wasn’t the only thing that came. I didn’t want to admit it, but Sloane Armstrong, a goddamned reporter, had gotten me all riled up. And not in the way reporters usually did. I’ll fess up. I had given her more than a once over during the car ride to her place. Guilty as charged.
She wasn’t bad looking under all the pregnancy puke. Her honeyed tresses had whipped in the wind in soft brownish-blonde waves. She was petite, but toned. Apparently, those Bacon Ranch fries she kept talking about haven’t started messing with her figure just yet. Her porcelain skin was flawless, at least as far as I had been able to tell under the Walking Dead look. It hadn’t looked like she was getting a whole lot of sleep. But, I could see why my brother would have picked her out of a crowd. What I couldn’t figure was why he would do it while pretending to be me? I mean, think about it. It wasn’t like he was ugly. He looked like me, for Crissake!
What I did know was she kept my mind off the raging haze of anger that I felt during the game – a feeling that had started to ease off once the adrenaline started to wind down. After security had escorted her from the locker room, I went and saw Hugh for my Toradol shot he kept hounding my ass about, took my shower, and went and found her and those incredibly pert breasts in the parking lot. Her nipples had teased – teased me as they pressed through the thin weave of her tank – two perfectly rounded mounds with two hard crests just waiting to be sucked.
Then, nearly as soon as I had dropped her off, the anger started to slip back in. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. As fucked up as my life has been, football has always been my go-to. My therapy. Pee-Wee League, through high school and college, and into the pros. No matter what was bothering me, I could always step out onto that expanse of green turf, and settle my messed up thoughts with the routine of plays. With the geometry of connecting the ball with a ready receiver. I could hide the bruises with the ones earned through an honest hit.
But, lately? Lately, I couldn’t find that peace on the field. Now? Now it felt like every single time I toed that fifty-yard line, it was all out war. A take-no-prisoners kind of war.
Fine.
If it was gonna be war, then I was gonna reap the goddamned spoils.
I turn my attention back to horny blonde on my lap. Shit. What’s her name? Holly? Haley? Aw, who the fuck cares. She’s sprawled backward over my legs as I sit, slouched in one of the dark corner booths, my free hand wedged down the front of her jeans.
Her strappy, sequined cropped top – what’s the fucking term? Oh, yeah. Bralette. Whatever the hell you call it, it seems infinitely pointless in my opinion as it’s barely holding her huge tits in, and wil
l likely wind up on the floor soon.
Maybe at my place.
She pumps her pelvis up toward me, practically begging for it.
Okay. Maybe in my car.
She reaches a free hand up to my chest and teases my nipple through the silky weave of my shirt, sending little jolts of electricity searing straight to my hard cock.
Maybe in the back stall of the men’s bathroom, up against the wall, as I fuck her senseless.
I drop a hot, hungry mouth on top of hers, my thick forefinger dancing expertly over her clit and she writhes.
I squeeze the juicy lime wedge into the hollow of her navel, cresting to the point of her top drop and drag a swirling finger in it and around her flat belly. A throaty groan lingers on her Angelina Jolie mouth. I sprinkle salt over the lime juice trail. The blonde’s eyes roll back in her head as she anticipates what’s coming next. I tip the lime into her cleavage, tweaking her nipple on my way back to the shot glass, making her wait. She moans. It’s obviously not what she wants. Ah, what the hell? I don’t have to be a total dick about it. I grace her with my warm, wet tongue.
I connect at the crest of her pubic bone, just above the low-rider waistline. My hand is in her pants, fingers working in slow circles over her clit at the same time. My tongue starts a slow drag from the tart puddle of juice in her navel and along the winding trail of salt towards her tits. Her back arches as my expert fingers work their magic and my tongue starts a fire I can actually feel in her skin.
I pause just long enough to toss back the shot before my mouth descends on the hollow between her breasts and sucks the lime.
But, the lime’s not really what I want.
Back stall of the bathroom it is.
I spit the lime wedge out, intending to nail the blonde’s empty margarita glass. Instead, it nails Dante Scott, the team’s defensive linemen, right in the back of his razored head in the next booth. I guess the Hornito’s got my geometry a little off.
“Hey! What the fuck, man?” The six-foot-four, two hundred ninety-eight pound wall of a man jumps to his feet. He reaches his cannon of an arm back behind him and pulls the lime from the collar of his dark blue, shadow plaid suit. His dark face gets even darker. My blonde-haired release valve gets a little skittish in the big man’s shadow. She scrambles off my lap.