Bad Boys Teaser: A Sizzling Bad Boys Anthology

by Rie Warren

  Good idea she snapped him securely in. For fuck’s sake, the kid was likely to try surfing on the roof rack at high speeds next.

  After I settled her into the driver’s seat, I loped around to the passenger side.

  She started the engine.

  I started tapping my fingers on my thigh. The sudden quiet was . . . astounding considering Callum was in the back seat.

  I turned to check on him, but Pey stopped me with a hand on my arm. “No sudden moves.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make any sudden moves.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “He’s asleep. Let’s keep it that way.”

  She swung the rearview mirror toward me, and I glanced back.

  Callum’s head lolled at a really awkward angle.

  “Are you sure he’s okay?”

  “Yes. Holy shit. I can finally swear.” Peyton laughed quietly. “You completely exhausted him today.”

  “We’re good together.” Under-fucking-statement.

  I had almost even stopped swearing in my head because of Callum.

  She parked in my driveway minutes later, admitting, “We’re not terrible.”

  Understatement of the century.

  I got out then popped open Peyton’s door. “Come here for a minute?”

  “I can’t come inside.” She gazed at me, nibbling her bottom lip.

  “Wasn’t asking you to.” I backed up a couple steps. “Just here.”

  She took my waiting hand and when she slipped into my arms, I snuck my head against her hair. “You smell like popcorn, pizza, and soda pop.”

  “Complaining?”

  “Never.” I lowered my hands to just above her ass. “We had a really good day.” I looked down at her.

  “We did.”

  “And we didn’t even kiss.”

  “We almost did.”

  “I don’t remember that.” Leaning back, I smirked at her.

  “Rafe!” She hit me on the arm again.

  “So that means you like me, right? You know, playground rules?” I flashed her a grin.

  “I’m not sure you should be taking relationship advice from our son.”

  The way she said our son so matter of fact gripped my heart. I was about to dive in for the kiss I’d wanted all day long when she pulled away from me.

  Rounding the car, she oh-so-quietly opened the back to retrieve something. I watched, curious, as she strolled back to me then handed me a wrapped box.

  “What’s this?”

  “I made it for you. A scrapbook about Callum.” She stood uncertainly before me.

  “You . . .” I traced the blue ribbon tied around the gift—a gift that meant more than any other I’d ever received. “You did this for me?”

  “I just wish I could make up for everything,” she whispered.

  “You can.” I grabbed her around the waist, hauling her against me. “You know I want more with you. Want everything.”

  “I’m not sure I can give it.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, drawing away before I could respond. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”

  Twenty-Four

  Game Day

  Peyton

  THE SECOND WEEK OF September arrived way too soon, bringing with it our first game of the season. Monday Night Football. We were hosting our rivals—the Denver Devils—who’d completely wiped the field with us during the final match up last year.

  So no pressure or anything.

  The kickoff was set for eight thirty. By five o’clock I felt sick to my stomach. I ran through the house, half my face made up, my skirt unzipped, searching for the high heels I wanted to wear. And Rafe wanted more? I couldn’t handle everything I already had on my plate.

  My hair was in freaking rollers, and I never did this shit. Makeup for me consisted of lipstick and mascara. Usually applied in the car when I hit a stop sign with Callum spotting me from the back.

  And I still didn’t know where my damn stilettoes were.

  It was all Phil’s fault. All of it.

  She’d taken me out to get messy, maybe get some strange a couple nights ago. The woman was a straight-up bad influence, Coach D’s daughter or not.

  My gorgeous friend had two glasses of whiskey waiting as she basically held court at the bar—flirting with men and woman alike.

  “I’m not getting drunk.” I’d slid onto the stool next to hers.

  “Cheers!” She’d clinked her glass to mine. “Rafe has Callum?”

  “Yes Rafe has Callum. And I am not getting some strange on tonight, whatever that means.”

  I swallowed the mellow burn of the whiskey, Phil cackling, her bright white teeth even more vibrant because of the magenta lipstick on her full lips.

  “Let’s discuss Rafe Mac, shall we?”

  “Uh. No. Let’s not.” After knocking back the rest of my drink, I raised my fingers to order two more.

  Both for me.

  Maybe I was going to get slammed tonight.

  “But he was the reason for the FFG during the summer, right?” she asked.

  I didn’t know FFG from MSG. Actually I probably knew a lot more about MSG. “FFG?”

  “Fresh Fuck Glow, home girl.” Eye roll.

  “We had a moment this summer. I ended it.”

  “I know. Word travels fast.”

  “Because of your dad,” I muttered into my glass.

  “You tellin’ me he didn’t bang you right? Didn’t do it for you?” Phil had leaned closer. “’Cause you were walkin’ on clouds for a few weeks there, honey.”

  “Too complicated.”

  “One of these days y’all are gonna have to deal with it.”

  “It?” I’d asked.

  “Love.”

  “Pffft.”

  Phil’s perfectly sculpted black eyebrows rose into a stunning arch. I still hadn’t figured out how she did that.

  “Callum’s baby daddy,” she sing-songed.

  “Don’t do that. You have terrible pitch.”

  Lie.

  The woman did everything like a genius. Except for counseling me on the coupledom.

  “So”—she tapped her phone in an evil genius manner—“you want me to set up your profile on Bumble now?”

  “Bumble Bee? Is that like Burt’s Bees?”

  “You know what I love about you, Pey? You’re so, so innocent.”

  “Bullshit. I grew up around athletes, I own an NFL team, and I have a son. I am not innocent.” I’d snorted. And ordered another drink.

  “Speaking of your son . . . why in the hell you still single-mom-ing it when you have a man—a sexy hunk of mancock NFL quarterback, Callum’s very own, real-life dad—ready and willing to man up even after the whole secret baby thang?” She peered at me, her eyes narrowed, her fingertips tapping. “Girl. Don’t take no PhD to figure that shit out.”

  “Pffft.” I’d been in full ignore-reality mode.

  The ignore angle was really working for me personally.

  Phil changed her angle, too. She flipped her long legs out and then slowly crossed them at the knees, purposefully drawing the attention of the men in the bar she had no intentions of sleeping with. Don’t get me wrong, she was out to score all right . . . score free drinks, that was.

  “Time to watch the college boys drool.” She winked.

  She was pure evil. Pure evil who got me.

  As soon as she’d had a ring of men surrounding us, as well as newly refreshed drinks thanks to one of them, she smiled with wicked pleasure. “Sorry, boys. Imma lady-lovah.” She reached out and curled a lock of my red hair around her index finger. “But I bet you’ll all be dreamin’ about a little vanilla-chocolate swirl action tonight.”

  Her throaty laugh trilled through the groans of the guys she’d just played, and I smacked her hand away.

  “You know they’re gonna go bust a nut about that right now?”

  “I live to torture the male of the species.” Glancing up from the glass she twirled between her palms, she hit me with a serious look.
“But maybe you shouldn’t torture Rafe anymore, sugar.”

  Torturing Rafe was the last thing on my mind while I desperately tried to make myself presentable for the game.

  Still couldn’t find my new Louboutins. Not until Callum hobbled out of his bedroom wearing them. Lord, that boy was gonna break an ankle. Hell, I was probably going to break an ankle.

  After wrangling the expensive shoes off him, I toed into the stupid stilettoes that were no doubt going to see me crippled tonight. All because of green eyes. And a really nice cock. And—God—why did he have to be so perfect in pretty much every way?

  “Stupid green eyes,” I grumbled, spritzing on perfume while flipping rollers from my hair into the sink.

  “I got green eyes.” Callum watched me as he swung in and out of the doorway.

  “Yes, you do.” I dropped a kiss on his forehead, heading toward my closet. “Handsome little man.”

  “They’re Daddy Rafe’s eyes.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Why can’t I go to the game?” The level of his voice rose an extra octave.

  “It’ll end late, honey.” I shoved hangars aside, looking for my lightweight blazer.

  “But you’re goin’.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And Daddy Rafe’ll be playin’.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “Mommy. I wanna go!” He stomped his foot, a sure sign of imminent tantrum.

  “School night, baby boy.”

  “Not a baby.” He pouted.

  And don’t even get me started on the morning Rafe and I had dropped him off for his first day of kindergarten. My heart nearly shattered when he’d entered the school, the huge backpack like a turtle shell, so big I thought it would tip him over backwards.

  Tears pricked my eyes. Sobs clung to my throat. “I should help him, Rafe. His backpack’s way too big. And I don’t think I can leave him here all alone . . .”

  “I’ve seen that boy lug around your purse, darlin’.” Rafe had curled his arm around my shoulders. “And he’s not alone. We already met his teachers, and he told me his best friend from preschool is in his class. He’s gonna be fine.”

  My lips trembled. “But I’m not.”

  Folding me into his comforting embrace, Rafe smoothed his hand over my hair. “Yes, you are. First day’s always the worst, babe.”

  And that first day, Rafe had held me while I’d cried quiet tears. He’d taken me for breakfast, tried to distract me, and been with me at pickup time to make sure I was okay.

  Now tonight was his first game, and my nerves were just as jumbled.

  “Honey”—I crouched down in front of Cal while trying to zip my skirt—“you can come to a lot of other games. I promise. Just not this one.”

  His nose scrunched. He scratched the side of his head. He took a moment to consider then said, “Can you give this to Daddy then?”

  After digging around in his pocket, he pulled out a severely crumpled piece of paper and pushed it into my hand. I carefully uncreased the page and teared up over the colorful drawing he’d made.

  Heart squeeze.

  I clasped Cal against me. And when my voice could work again, I murmured, “’Course I can.”

  By seven I arrived at the Carolina Crush stadium in downtown Charleston, my stomach was in knots. There was press and publicity, mics, camera crews, commentators everywhere. I met up with Lou briefly for a few pregame soundbites before heading inside.

  I meant to go straight to the owner’s box with the bird’s-eye view, but my feet—already pinched in the Louboutins—aimed for the locker room. I’d barely cracked the door when I heard Coach D’s booming voice amplified in the huge room:

  “Y’all sat through the meetings. You memorized all the plays. You sweated through all the drills! We’re not gonna let the Devils beat us in our house again!”

  Nothing I could add to that pep talk.

  With a secret smile I slipped away followed by the sound of the men—my team—shouting loud and Carolina proud.

  In the skybox, I walked toward the windows, and my heart almost fluttered to my throat.

  Stadium lights blazed brightly even though the sun hadn’t set yet. The arena, seating seventy-five thousand, was sold out. Red-clad fans rooting for our team, hoping for redemption, took up more than half the stadium.

  The hard work absolutely had to pay off starting now, or I might have to trade players. Put Buckley in as QB. Worst case scenario? Sell the team.

  I couldn’t let my father down.

  I wouldn’t let the team go down either.

  Lou entered followed by Serena Dixon, Rafe’s agent. I’d likely be better off with Callum the chatterbox keeping me company, but this new team was about mending fences and building loyalty.

  I’d heard Serena wasn’t a fan of mine after finding out about Cal’s paternity so I hoped to win her over with the swank seats, the delicious food, the bubbly champagne.

  “Peyton.” Tall and dark-haired, Serena shook my hand. “How’s your boy going to do tonight?”

  “Oh, he’s not my boy. He’s yours.” Because if he failed on the field I was gonna kick him in the balls.

  Kidding.

  Kind of.

  “That’s right. You already have a boy.” She hit me with the mean glare.

  Like I hadn’t been up against much worse, from Lou in fact every time I wrangled with the ornery GM.

  Who now whistled through his teeth. “This pregame show of yours might be even more entertaining than the one down below. And that’s hard to compete with when Buckley’s taking the field with the cheerleaders.”

  I laughed, spinning to look through the windows again. “I’d forgotten he lost the first quarterback wager.”

  And yup. There was our Cornhusker rookie, in a cheer outfit complete with spangled bootie shorts, red lipstick, and pompoms.

  I watched the close-up of young Buckley shaking his thing on the JumboTron to a sick, pumped-up remix of “Heathens” alongside the Crush cheerleaders. He popped his ass, strutted his stuff, and had the fans on their feet, whistling and howling like crazy. Definitely a crowd-pleaser. The applause when he did a backflip then hit an-almost split shook our box.

  He sprinted off field for a quick change to his uniform, and suddenly the sports announcers’ comments piped into our booth on the same live feed going out all over the nation:

  “It’s Monday Night Football, folks!” The deep voice blasted in. “Last year saw the near-demise of a once great franchise—Carolina Crush—and the passing of Billy Fox. Now owned by his daughter, Peyton Fox, Crush has taken a lot of risks, built a deeper roster. They even started training camp early. It’s time to see if the gamble was worth it as they face the Denver Devils—the team who defeated them last—once again!”

  Well, when you put it like that . . . no pressure or anything.

  Then it was all stamping feet, shouting voices, fiery pyrotechnics on the field as the teams rushed onto the turf.

  Music. Roars. Player intros.

  Everyone was representing for the armed services this month: camo towels, baseball caps worn on the sidelines, headgear covers, and even shoelaces and wristbands in olive green.

  Slapping hands. Slapping asses. Bumping chests.

  My heart sailed into the atmosphere when Rafe was announced. I hoped he killed it tonight.

  The wild mood settled for the national anthem as everyone stood with their hands over their chests.

  And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

  Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;

  O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

  O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

  And after the final notes, my eyes welled when a squadron of Thunderbirds from the Charleston AFB flew in formation above the stadium.

  Seconds later the game was underway, and I sat on the edge of my chair, hemm
ed in by Lou and Serena, both equally invested.

  The Devils won the coin toss, and their quarterback was an MVP. I hoped Akoni sacked the crap outta him.

  The first throw bulleted downfield. Ten yards. Twenty. Thirty. That football almost sailed into our side when their top seed wide receiver plucked the ball from the air. He dodged left and right, finally tackled to the ground at the Devils’ forty-five.

  First play. First freakin’ down after a lot of yardage. Not good at all.

  Lou started pulling at what little hair he had left on his head.

  Serena cussed so much she could’ve filled Rafe and Liv’s swear jar with one single sentence.

  The Devils QB did a sneak roll and fake pass then slipped the football to a running back with a feint of hand our defense completely missed. The Denver Devils scored. Two minutes into the game.

  Jesus.

  “With seven points on the board, the Devils come out of the gate and show no quit! Can Crush recover from the defense team’s fubar?”

  It was our ball next.

  Brooklyn caught that bitch on kickoff, dodging downfield like a demon was riding his back. He hit our thirty, our forty, gunning for glory as he steamrolled right into Devils’ territory.

  “Run, Brooks! Run!” I jumped to my feet.

  The Devils didn’t tackle him until he hit their fifteen.

  “Looks like Crush found new life. Brooklyn Holt brought down close to the end zone. Carolina should be able to hammer this touchdown home!”

  The snap. The ball in Rafe’s hands. He pulled back, aimed, and let loose. The football sped lightning-fast, and Marquis’s fingertips touched it.

  I leaned forward, almost smushing my nose to the glass. “Catch it, Marquis!”

  His fingers closed over the ball. Hugging it against his chest, he outran the defense, hopped over a lineman, and cruised into the end zone.

  Score! The extra kick good! Tied! The first five minutes, and I needed prescription medication. I emptied a bottle of champagne into my glass.

  “You should pace yourself, Peyton.” NYC-slick Serena didn’t seem ready to celebrate.

  Neither was I. The bubbly was medicinal only. “My nerves are shot.”

  “You know Rafe’s in love with you, right? Always has been.” She looked at me askance and barely bothered to lower her voice just so maybe—you know—Lou wouldn’t overhear.