by Amber Malloy
* * * *
Although Remy was slightly tipsy but totally amused after her second glass of merlot, the football wives showed her no signs that they were slowing down. Since she often traveled alone, she rarely indulged. She had become a pro at nursing the same drink for hours.
Between the wine and the vodka, Lashonda had braided Remy’s hair. Sensing that she was already half in the bag, Remy reconsidered the woman’s overly generous offer. “Ladies,” she began, “I don’t know what the itinerary is for this weekend, but—”
“That’s easy. Allison is going to hold us hostage until we all agree to do this reality show she’s pushing,” the one who had ‘hot librarian’ written all over her replied.
“None of our husbands are on board, and now that you’ve showed up—” Lashonda finished.
“Wait a minute! What do I have to do with this?”
“Knox is the quarterback,” her honorary hair stylist explained.
“Ow!” Remy flinched at the sudden pain.
“Sorry, girl. How the hell are you tender-headed with all of this hair?”
“Because I don’t yank it out by the root,” she muttered.
“My touch is very tender, I’ll have you know.”
Remy glared over her shoulder and wondered once again if she’d underestimated Lashonda’s level of drunkenness.
“Stop fidgeting and listen up,” the football wife demanded. “Player stats and popularity are directly correlated with the hierarchy of the wives.”
“How long you’ve been married means basically nothing if your husband’s stats suck.” The sexy librarian held her glass out for another drink before she shrugged and grabbed the whole bottle of tequila. “Which means that you’re the number one wife… Even if he is cheating on you.”
“Lacy!” the tiny one hissed.
“Not that I think he is! I mean, pictures don’t mean anything. Also, if I were to judge by the way he eye-banged you across the table at dinner—”
“And probably really banged you in the rainforest,” Lashonda added. Remy held her hand up for a high-five. The football wife landed the affirmative loud smack to the middle of her palm.
“Public sex,” Remy gasped in mock horror. “And here I thought we were being discreet.”
The women joined Remy in a laugh, until a big, ugly sob from the librarian silenced the group.
“We used to be like that, me and Roy,” she cried, while sipping from the bottle of tequila. “But that bitch!”
“Oh hell,” Lashonda muttered. “Not that Remy doesn’t want to be filled in on The Carl’s Junior girl, but we’re trying to keep it light. Right, Lace?”
“Yeah,” she sniffled. “Light and tight.”
“Here’s the dirty… Alli is going to either ice you out or cozy up to you, and considering how Knox hates the press more than anyone…”
“Iced,” the wives screamed in unison. The little one even dragged her finger across her throat and made the death sign, with the lolling tongue.
“All done.” Lashonda nudged her shoulder. Remy got up from the chair and went to the mirror above the couch. Fully prepared to lie, Remy smiled at her reflection. She absolutely loved the long twists.
“Good, huh? I do my best work drunk.” The wife beamed.
“Ah-h-h,” she murmured, speechless and amazed at how pretty the braids had turned out.
“Right? I was a hair stylist before I became a fashion stylist and got knocked up a whole bunch of times by a sex addict, so-o-o-o…” Lashonda leaned sidewise on the arm of the couch. “Sometimes I miss it.” She sighed before she fell onto the cushions.
Still admiring her hair, Remy did a little dance. “This is perfect for the Wave Festival.”
“You’ve got tickets?” the tiny one whined. “Great! You have all of the fun while we’re here with our fingers up our butts listening to Alli pitch that stupid show.”
“Actually, I have to work, but I scored extra tickets if you guys want to come.”
“Yes, a thousand times yes,” Lashonda said in a sing-songy tone. “Is it cool if we bring Lisa? She would be here, but—”
“Doug rarely lets her out of his sight.” Librarian dabbed at her eyes.
“Why not?” Happy that the conversation had naturally turned toward the girl, she completely ignored Knox’s advice to stay out of it. “I mean, what’s the story with those two, anyway?”
Chapter Seven
As techno music blared across the muddy field, at least ninety degrees of tropical heat beamed down on them. Barely clothed bodies danced to a drug-induced beat. Eight out of eleven starters for the Mavericks, including Mooch, stood away from the dancers and tried to map out a food plan. Tired and grouchy, Knox felt the beginning signs of sunstroke in his not-so-distant future.
The team had stayed up late playing poker, reminiscing about their epic season. Even though Knox had won a ton of money, he’d still managed to sulk most of the night.
“We’ve been doing these promotional vacations for a while now and I’ve never seen our wives this happy.”
“Shonda warned me that if this sucked, we were out,” Andre said. “No more tours with the team.” The wives danced in a tight circle in the middle of the clearing. Everyone except Remy. He scanned the crowd but didn’t see her.
“Knox’s wife has been around less than a week and scored us tickets to the biggest festival of the year,” he heard one of the guys say.
“Yeah, well, no one really asked her to,” Doug grumbled.
Knox squinted from the bright rays of the sun to stare at the ungrateful, bloated mess of a man. Stinky and swaying on his heels, his teammate appeared halfway out of his mind. None of them knew how he had passed their annual drug test.
“You didn’t have to come,” Knox responded.
“Who else would watch over Lisa?” Doug threw Mooch a shitty look before he went back to glaring at the wives in a psychotic manner. Officially done dealing with the hophead, he searched the crowd for his wife.
“She’s over there.” Mooch pointed to the DJ booth. Blending in seamlessly with the vibe of the crowd, she stood with her camera one level lower than the stage. Long braids flowed over her shoulder and down the back of her crop-top blouse. Finishing the ensemble off with her flowy skirt and sandals, she looked flawless.
“Hey, check out those horny toads,” one of the guys remarked about a group of dudes who were inching closer to the circle of wives.
“I’ll take care of it,” Doug growled.
Andre caught him by the shoulder. “Slow your roll, Romeo.” He laughed. “We’ll just have to send in a blocker.”
Knox slapped Mooch on the chest. “You’re up.”
“Oh, come on. That shit’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, rookie,” Andre called out, leading Doug toward the food vendors, “protect the prize.”
Hanging his head in defeat, Mooch fought his way into the massive mob. Impressed by the kid’s grace, Knox figured any one of their teammates would have resorted to mowing down the sea of gyrating partiers.
As the rookie worked his way into the chaos, Knox found his gaze wandering back to Remy. She kept her camera focused on the crowd. He had a pretty good idea what she was up to.
“Showtime.” Jake tapped him on the shoulder. Mooch had arrived a few seconds after the little pervs had zeroed in on the group of wives. He picked off the boldest of the bunch fairly quickly. Ready to retaliate, the guy took in Mooch’s size and obviously decided against that tussle.
With a serious face, Mooch threw his hands wide and danced hard. MC Hammering the circle, he went around the girls with an impressive beat, knocking off the encroaching group of men one by one.
The sight of the six-foot-four-inch cornerback’s aggressive moves amused the crap out of all of them. Humping, thumping and bumping around the clueless idiots who had the bad luck to violate their women, Mooch put on such a show that Knox and his teammates laughed to the point where they were close to tears.
“No shit. Alli sucks at it,” one of the other players responded.
Drying up from the humor fairly quickly, Knox sought out Remy once again. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she was staring directly at their group. As his eyes locked with hers, he tried to figure out if something had changed.
Does she want to stay married or not?
* * * *
During the off season, the players allowed themselves a small amount of leeway in their diets, but nothing too extreme, since it hurt like hell to get back on track. He was positive that he had drunk his weight in alcohol, and a hard drumbeat kicked around in his head. To knock the edge off the incessant pain, Knox mixed himself a Bloody Mary.
As the numbers on the wall clock blurred, Remy stepped out of the bedroom. They’d had two more days in paradise and had spent less than a couple of hours in each other’s presence.
“Nice, Knox. It’s not even noon. At least you’re getting a jump on the brunch crowd.”
“Straight hair… Guess you won’t be sweating away that blow-out!” He took a swig of the filthy concoction. Since he was already on shaky ground with her, he should have held his tongue, but he couldn’t help it.
“Look at the Canadian knowing shit.”
Pushing his sunglasses on top of his head, he felt his anger slowly swell. “You meant ‘white boy’ and you know it.”
“I would have said it if I’d meant it.” Remy’s gaze never wavered from his. He drained his glass and took in the sight of her body-hugging sundress. Unable to distinguish what made him unhappy with her most at the moment, he decided that it must be everything. Remy’s tab had stacked to an astronomical degree.
The wives had split into factions. Normally, the men veered clear of their petty arguments or infighting. Instead of allowing his wife to slip out of the range of blame, he added it to the list of grievances he had already compiled in his head.
Licking the hard liquor off his lips, he leaned across the suite’s bar. “For the last time, sweetheart, whose pussy is this?”
Every muscle on her face drew taut. “Do you really want to go there?”
“Tell me. Have you been with somebody else? I want to know if I’m wasting my time.”
“Says the man with the community dick.”
Physically flinching from the sting of her words, he gritted his teeth. “You know I would never—”
“According to US Weekly, People magazine or even the world, for that matter, you did.”
“It’s just that I didn’t know that it would go—”
“International?” She sneered. “Because football might not be a thing overseas, but tone-deaf pop stars are.”
At the time, the whole publicity stunt had seemed like a good idea. Of course, his brilliant father had warned him against such nonsense. Knox shoved his hand through his hair and fought against his rapidly unraveling emotions. He’d had no clue their marriage certificate would get leaked.
“When those magazines hit the table, you didn’t so much as blink at the covers,” he told her.
“Okay, let’s do this.” She closed in the space between them. Mere inches away, he had no choice but to face her. “I started masturbating… I think it was freshman year in college.” Remy put her hand to her chin and rolled her eyes upward, pretending as if she didn’t remember. “Most teens start sooner, but after my parents died, my anxiety was off the charts. And I had that boyfriend in high school, so I didn’t really need to do it that much then.”
A flutter in his chest shortened his breath. If she confessed to cheating, he would lose it. “Remy,” he growled, before he sucked in an inhuman amount of air.
Funny, in retrospect he’d believed he could handle that part. However, the mere thought of another man touching her drove him straight bonkers.
“After we got married, we had those long-ass football season droughts where you couldn’t fly out to see me.” Leaning casually against the bar, she flipped her hair. “Training camp, draft week, promotional tours…”
He tried to move around her to gain perspective, but she stepped in front of him.
“Okay,” Knox said. His tightly controlled voice sounded foreign to his own ears, “I don’t need to know. Just go do whatever you had planned. I’m going to bed.”
“If I came back to the States, it would have been less time apart, but there’s this maniac trying to kill me, and—”
“Remy!” he shouted. “If this shit in any way ends with you fucking someone else—”
“Vibrators are great!” she continued, without missing a beat. “But it’s hard to find batteries in some of these countries. And the Internet for good porn? Forget about it.”
“Holy shit! If you don’t stop talking…” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he dropped his head back and counted way past ten.
“So, you’d think if I couldn’t get dick or use a vibrator, that at the very least this asshole I married could do would be to pick up the phone, whether it was three a.m. or six p.m.”—Remy’s voice trembled—“no matter who he’s sleeping next to.”
As regret crept into his psyche and weighed on him, tears pooled in her big brown eyes and slipped down those supermodel-high cheekbones. He’d known better than to pull that manipulative crap in the first place, but months without her had played tricks on him. No better than the worst asshole on his team, he reached out to touch her. Remy quickly slipped out of his reach. Feeling useless, he shoved his hands into his jean pockets.
Knox knew he deserved this… He deserved worse.
“I picked up every time,” he whispered, sounding lame, even to his own ears.
“That’s the only reason we’re not divorced…yet.” She turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter Eight
Tears blurred the numbers on the panel. Remy swiped at her eyes and hit floor number five. Thankfully, no one had joined her in the cab, allowing her enough time to pull herself together.
Months ago, she had caught wind of those magazines with Knox on the cover and she’d immediately known his end goal.
He wanted her home.
She hadn’t been back to America in years. Apparently, the long distance between them had taken its toll.
“Message received,” she muttered. The doors to the elevator opened, and Remy stepped onto a floor she didn’t recognize. Quiet storefronts lined this level, along with high-priced hotel suites. Since it was still fairly early, the rush of people probably wouldn’t pick up until the afternoon.
“Hey, Remy.” Mooch stepped out of the convenience store. He seemed almost as lost she did.
“Is the Internet café on this floor?” she asked.
“No, I think that’s on seven, but don’t quote me on it.”
She needed to check her email but was still without a phone. Usually she would use Knox’s. Needless to say, her current mood wouldn’t allow her to even request simple directions to the bathroom from him.
“Thanks for the tickets to the festival. It was fun,” Mooch said shyly. “This is my first vacation with the team, but I hear it’s the best one they’ve had so far.”
The elevator bell chimed. Offering him a tight smile, Remy backed into the cab.
“Hey,” Mooch gently grabbed her arm, “that’s going down.”
She glanced over her shoulder at a man in a baseball cap. When he tilted his head up enough for her to see his face, she stumbled. As her heart skipped a beat, she scrambled to put distance between herself and the elevator bay.
“Are you okay?” Mooch asked.
Before the doors could fully close, Remy took off.
* * * *
Knox studied the bathroom mirror. Red-rimmed eyes and a five o’clock shadow three times over—heavily skating on a full-grown beard—stared back at him. He brushed his teeth, hoping that would help get rid of the grimy feel, but
he had no such luck. His freshly clean mouth didn’t help him. Knox still felt he placed first in the local creep competition for his poor behavior.
Someone pounded at the suite’s door, interrupting the current bitch session inside his head. Maybe some sleep would work, but he doubted it. Although he was pretty sure Remy had her keycard, there didn’t seem to be any way to escape the incessant banging.
Covering his face from the harsh island sun that penetrated the room, he stalked toward the door and flung it open. “What?”
“Is Remy here?” Mooch huffed out of breath.
“No, man, why?”
“We were at the elevators and she took off. I think she saw someone she knew or something. I don’t know, but it was weird.”
Doused with bone-chilling fear, he grabbed his shirt off the bar stool. “What did he look like?” Already out of their suite, Knox headed for the stairs.
“I’m not sure. I didn’t get a real good look at him, but she seemed…I don’t know, skittish.” Mooch shrugged. “Scared, I mean. I wouldn’t have come up here trying to find her, but—”
“But what?” Knox shouted.
“It kind of looked like he was trying to get out of the elevator to grab her. I don’t know. I could be wrong.”
“What floor?” He yanked the disgusting alcohol- and cigar-soiled shirt over his head.
“Five. She wanted the Internet café but got turned around.”
“Do me a favor. Catch the elevator to that floor. I’ll take the stairs. Let me in when you get there.” Knox opened the door to the stairwell and took off. They were only six floors up from the fifth. The alcohol was probably slowing him down, but not by much. He took the steps two and three at a time.
As memories from that moment he had found her broken in the parking lot at his college apartment assailed him, Knox peered over the railing to the lower floors.
Mooch stood in the doorway.
“Head toward the casino,” he barked at the rookie once he’d made it to that level. “I’ll check out the suites over here.”