Ballbuster (A Playing Dirty Sports Romance Book 1)

by Lane Hart

  "Page?" Jamie asks from the doorway.

  "Hey, what's up?" I ask our receptionist, glad it's not another snickering attorney.

  "Sorry to interrupt, but Elliott wanted me to catch you before you left," she starts, then drops her eyes to the post-it in her hand.

  "Let me guess, he has to cancel lunch?" I ask, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest in annoyance at the man, not the messenger.

  "Yes. He apologized and said he would make it up to you tonight," she says reading from the post-it note in her hand.

  I groan, already hearing how he'll "make it up" to me by talking nonstop about whatever budget plan or new piece of legislation they'd worked on today. How important his job is, how wonderful he is, blah, blah, blah.

  "Thanks, Jamie," I tell her as she backs out of the office and suddenly covers her nose and mouth. That reminds me. "Oh, and, Jamie? Can you have someone from housekeeping come grab my trash for me?" I ask, and she nods quickly before pulling the door shut.

  "Sorry about your trash can," Malone murmurs. I swear he almost sounded embarrassed with his eyes cast down to the floor.

  "Don't worry about it." I shrug it off.

  "Friend stand you up?" he asks.

  "Fiancé, and yes. Not the first time and won't be the last." Self-centered prick. Why make plans if three out of four times they get canceled? Why not just say, "Hey, I'll call you if I get free?"

  "You're not wearing a ring," he says, interrupting my internal ranting.

  "Um, excuse me?" I ask.

  "A ring," he repeats, holding up his hand and pointing to where the circular piece of jewelry would go.

  "Oh, well, we just sort of, you know…agreed to get married. It wasn't like he went down on one knee or made a big scene."

  "Sounds like a really romantic guy." He snorts with a shake of his head and his trademark smirk.

  "And you think you're what, a regular Casanova?" I scoff. The guy who chokes and rapes women wants to be critical of my love life?

  He shrugs in response. "Maybe not, but if a beautiful woman actually agreed to marry my dumb-ass, I wouldn't skimp on a ring. I'd want everyone to know she's taken and that she's mine."

  Was that a compliment or just a general statement? Either way, it doesn't matter.

  "Our relationship is not a bunch of hearts and flower nonsense." Because that would require an actual effort on Elliott's behalf. "It's basically a…realistic partnership."

  "What, like a business deal?" he asks.

  "Actually, yes."

  He shakes his head. "That's weird."

  "Weird? What's weird about marrying someone you're compatible with?"

  He shrugs again. "Whatever. Marriage is a waste anyway," he says, standing up to go. "What time do you want to leave tomorrow?"

  "Um, how about ten?" I suggest.

  "See you then," he replies over his shoulder. I watch as the man strolls out the door of my office with so much sexy swagger it should be illegal.

  Chapter Three

  Jax

  I pull up in front of the high-dollar law firm in Silver Spring two minutes late. The tall, bitchy blonde is already waiting for me at the curb, looking put out with her briefcase over her shoulder and arms crossed over her chest.

  It's going to be a long fucking day.

  I turn the booming bass of my stereo down and climb out. The ice princess opens the passenger door before I have a chance, so I just hold it open for her while she sits down with her nose wrinkled in disgust.

  After I settle back into the driver seat, I glance over at her while I put my seatbelt back on.

  "What?" I ask in annoyance when her face remains scrunched up like she smells shit. My car is my baby, and I keep it spotless. The only thing I smell inside of it is the scent of new leather and Armor All from the dashboard.

  "This is your car? What the heck is this thing?"

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" I ask in disbelief. "It's a brand new Dodge Viper. The most awesome car ever."

  "It's cramped and…impractical," she remarks, while twisting around to reach for the seatbelt.

  "It's fun to drive. Do you even know what the term fun means?"

  "Yes."

  "Right," I snicker. "You should be happy I didn't insist we take my bike."

  The thought of her arms wrapped around my waist, breasts pressed against my back while weaving through traffic on my Beemer, shouldn't be as arousing as it is. I can already tell my unfortunate vow of celibacy is gonna last about as long as the flavor in a stick of gum. I turn the radio back up as a distraction from my wayward thoughts, even louder than before just to tick Miss Priss off.

  She shifts her long, lean body, one I'm almost certain would be damn fine if it wasn't always covered up with expensive pantsuits like the black one she's got on today until she's as far away from me as possible in the confined space. Her revulsion shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I'm pretty sure she still thinks I'm guilty, and I don't like how she assumes I'm a bad guy. Sure, the IFC league casts me as a crazy motherfucker that bloodies people and knocks their brains loose. That's all true, but they're just trying to hype up the volatile maniac image to sell tickets and merchandise.

  I go along with it, playing up the role of the jackass fighter everyone loves to hate but still watch, because I'm able to backup my talk in the cage where it counts. Most women seem to go for the bad boy, even if some, like this ice princess, are afraid of me. Now with these charges, everyone probably thinks I'm a loose cannon.

  I don't care what the fans think about me, but my attorney that I'm paying to defend me so I won't spend the rest of my life in prison? Well, I need her to see that I'm innocent and worth her precious time to try and save me.

  I turn down the volume on the radio as I take the exit for the highway. "So, Ms. Davenport, how long have you been practicing?" I ask as nicely as possible.

  "I know what I'm doing," she responds snidely.

  "I didn't ask if you know what you're doing, I asked how long you've been practicing."

  "Almost a year," she says, lowering her voice like she's embarrassed and hates losing face.

  "Where'd you go to law school?"

  "Georgetown, just like everyone else in my family."

  "Nice. Go Bulldogs. That's a pretty tough school, right?" I ask.

  "Yeah, it's ranked thirteenth in the country."

  "Wow, that's impressive. You must’ve worked your ass off."

  She sighs. "Not really. My dad just made a few calls."

  "What?" I ask in disbelief, glancing over at her highness.

  "Kidding. That's what everyone probably thinks, though."

  "I've never really cared much about what everyone thinks," I tell her. Well, except for one sassy, uppity lawyer bitch.

  "Must be nice."

  "I take it criminal law is not your favorite area to practice?" I ask.

  "No, it's not. I don't know what area I want to practice in, though, so right now I take whatever cases my dad gives me."

  "What about your fiancé? Is he an attorney, too?" I don't know much about him, but he has to be an asshole for standing her up on a regular basis. Oh, and what kind of dick doesn't even buy a fucking engagement ring?

  She gives a soft sarcastic laugh. "Technically, although he's currently serving as a state senator and not really practicing."

  "Ah. So he's a politician. Those are even worse than attorneys, right?" I tease.

  "Oh yeah," she agrees. "Elliot has his eye on the U.S. Congress and then running for the Presidency after he's been in office a few years."

  "As in the President of the United States?" I ask in awe.

  "Um-huh, but that's way down the road."

  "So you could be like the First Lady someday?"

  "Yeah. I'm a lucky girl," she says quietly while looking out the window, not sounding like she feels the least bit lucky.

  "So how long have you been mauling people?" she asks after a few minutes of silence, catching me off g
uard.

  "A long time," I reply, unable to prevent the bloody memories of my youth from surfacing. "Since I was ten."

  "You mauled people when you were only ten years old?" she asks, her voice going all high and squeaky like she's appalled.

  "That's when I first started getting into fights, yeah. I used any reason to beat up a kid. If someone said a wrong word to me or messed with one of the other kids, I went ape-shit on their asses. After my third suspension from school, my dad told me that if I could go a month without getting into another fight, he'd let me enroll in the new kickboxing school."

  "So you started kickboxing?"

  "Yeah. I stopped fighting at school, took the kickboxing class once a week, and then eventually bumped it up to three times a week. In middle school, I added football and wrestling to burn off the anger. After I won the state championship in the one-seventy weight class in my freshman and sophomore year of high school, Jon Baker, a local MMA coach, approached me. He asked if I wanted to train with him to fight some tough ass men instead of weak little boys. I gave up school sports in my junior year and started training at his gym. When I was twenty-one, I signed up with former championship heavyweight boxer Don Briggs, my current coach, when he opened Havoc Fight Club in Silver Springs. A year later I won my first world championship belt."

  "And the rest is history," Page remarks.

  "Yeah. I've never lost a fight."

  "Never say never," she mutters.

  "As long as I stay in shape no one will ever beat me. I train with some first class heavyweights, and if they can't do it, no middleweight will, either."

  "Not lacking any confidence are you?"

  "It's the truth, not me just running my mouth."

  "Uh-huh," she says, sounding less than impressed. Why that bothers me, I have no idea.

  When she pulls her laptop from her bag and goes to work, I figure my attempt to make small talk is over. I turn the radio back up to an acceptable level and keep my thoughts to myself the rest of the trip.

  As soon as we arrive in Atlantic City, I take Page to the courthouse and wait for her in the car while she goes inside to file shit and talk to the prosecutor. I don't care anything for stepping foot into that terrifying place until I have to. When she returns, she's smiling triumphantly with a manila folder in her hand.

  "Good news," she says, fastening her seatbelt. "I talked to the District Attorney Franklin, who seems like a decent guy. He went ahead and gave me a copy of the discovery."

  "What's discovery?" I ask.

  "The evidence. Mostly police reports, the victim's statement… that sort of thing."

  "About that. You keep saying, 'the victim', but she's not a fucking victim," I point out in aggravation. Every time I hear that word I want to hit someone.

  Page's expression blanks and she finally nods. "Sorry, does 'alleged victim' sound better?"

  "Can't we just call her ‘the bitch’? Or cunt? Whore. Slut. Any of those would work," I tell her. Her soft laughter hits me in the chest harder than a battering ram. I rub my palm over the strange, unfamiliar ache.

  "Fine, we'll call her ‘the bitch,'" she agrees, even though I can tell she has to force the profanity from her prim and proper lips.

  "Good. So what did the bitch say?" I ask as I pull out of the courthouse parking lot and head to the hotel a few blocks over.

  "I've only skimmed through it," she says, pulling out the three-inch stack of documents. "You drive, and I'll read, then we can go through everything together when we get to the room." The room, where the alleged rape and strangulation occurred.

  I hear Page shuffling through the papers while I drive. "Oh no," she says solemnly when we come to a stop under the hotel's canopy.

  "What?" I ask.

  She shows me a close-up photo of a woman's neck. Not just any neck, but one with black bruises resembling fingertips on the side.

  Fuck!

  "I didn’t do that shit!" I tell her.

  "Are you sure? Could you…could you have been a little rough with her…during—"

  "Fuck no! I might like it rough, but I'd remember putting my hands around a woman's neck. I wasn't even rough with her at all that night. My hands never once touched her neck when she was on top, fucking me. All I touched were her hips. And maybe her tit…breasts."

  "This is not good," Page mutters, continuing to thumb through more photos that I can't make out.

  I jump out of the car, give the valet my keys, and take the offered ticket. I open Page's door since she's still immersed in her reading.

  "Come on," I tell her. "Let's go somewhere, so I can read that shit, too."

  She finally climbs out with her bag and handful of documents. After we stop by the front desk and give the security manager a subpoena for the surveillance video, he goes to check on making a copy for us while the front desk clerk gives us a key to the same room I'd stayed in less than two weeks ago.

  The oceanfront king suite on the eleventh floor looks just like I remember. I stand in the kitchen out of the way while Page takes a few pictures with her phone.

  When she sits down on the red leather couch across from the bed, I sit beside her, so we can both see what all they've given her at the courthouse. I don't understand some of the shit I scan as she passes the sheets to me, but then we get to the reports.

  "She said you tore her blouse and shoved her onto the bed before forcing her to perform oral sex…"

  I bark out a laugh. "How do you force a woman to suck a dick? Because I can tell you right now, my dick's not going anywhere near the teeth of an unwilling participant."

  Page's cheeks redden, apparently offended by my crassness. Too bad, she needs to get used to dealing with this sort of shit before trial.

  "That is sort of a preposterous accusation," she admits.

  "You think? And I didn't tear her shirt. She was wearing a button down and yanked it open herself."

  "She doesn't say anything about you removing her skirt or panties."

  "Because she wasn't wearing any. Panties that is."

  "Oh-kay. Let's see. Then she ends by saying you grabbed her by her throat to hold her down before penetrating her vaginally, so rough that it caused tearing..."

  "If she tore something that's her own damn fault for riding my dick five seconds after walking through the door."

  "Uh-oh. You said you used a condom right?" she asks.

  "I did use a condom. I always use condoms."

  "Well, this lab report from the rape kit shows that semen matching the DNA sample you gave them was found inside her vagina. The exam nurse gave her Plan B, to prevent the chance of pregnancy."

  "No! No fucking way!" I say, jumping to my feet. "That is bullshit! I used a condom. I came in the goddamn condom!"

  "Maybe…maybe it leaked," Page offers softly.

  "Trojans don't leak!"

  "Calm down and stop yelling at the messenger," she says, offering me the stack of documents. "Here, you take them."

  I yank the reports from her hand, probably harder than necessary, and sit on the bed so I can spread them out to look through them again. I re-read the lying sack of shit statement one more time, wondering how I can prove I didn't do any of the things she accuses.

  "What about if I do one of those lie detecting things?" I ask Page, who's standing in front of the sliding glass doors, looking out at the ocean. She's a breathtakingly beautiful woman when she's not wrinkling her nose like an elitist bitch.

  "A polygraph?" she turns around and asks.

  "Yes! One of those things."

  She shakes her head. "They're not admissible in court."

  "Then how the hell do I prove I didn't do something?"

  She blows out a breath and gnaws on her bottom lip in thought. "I might be able to get you an appointment with a retired FBI polygrapher, but it's going to cost about a grand."

  "But I thought you just said they aren't admissible or whatever."

  "Not as evidence in a trial, but if you pass…I could us
e it as leverage with the prosecutor."

  "I will pass."

  "Well, we can just shred the report if you don’t."

  "I will pass it," I repeat, and she looks back out toward the ocean. "What? You don't think I will? You thought I was guilty this whole damn time, so will this finally prove to you that I'm innocent?"

  She finally faces me again. "It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what twelve jurors believe, and I'm telling you, one look at those pictures, and you're going to get convicted."

  "Your job is to make sure I don't!"

  "I'm just an attorney, not a freaking miracle worker," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "You're really starting to piss me off," I warn her.

  "Then maybe you should hire someone else to represent you," she replies, her jaw tight, face blood red, looking as angry as I am at the moment. "Because if you get convicted, I don't want you blaming me for the fact that you were too stupid to take a plea!"

  "You are such a stuck-up bitch, you know that?"

  She scoffs at the insult. "Well, you're an arrogant, rude, overcompensating…" she sputters.

  "Yeah, so what? That doesn't mean I'm guilty!"

  "You know what, I'll just take the train home, so you can go on back without me," she says.

  "Hell no, you won't! I'm not leaving you in this city by yourself. You're going back with me, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to my car."

  She huffs out a breath, and her blue eyes narrow when she puts her clenched fists prissily on her hips. Damn if that doesn’t make her even sexier. It's also pretty funny to see her wound up like a feisty, aggravated kitten. The ones you can't help but keep teasing, trying to get them all riled up until they arch their backs and hop around on all four feet like they're little badasses.

  "What's the smirk for?" she asks in a huff.

  "You're kind of cute when you're trying to look pissed off."

  "You're not taking this seriously."

  "I'm as serious as a motherfucking heart attack. This is my life at stake here!"

  "Then listen to me when I tell you that those pictures are going to get you convicted, whether you're guilty or innocent. That's why a plea might really be the best thing-"