Bad Boy's Bridesmaid (29 page)

The waitress
dodged Bryon’s slap, juking just as good as he did on Sunday afternoons. If
opposing defenses groped instead of tackled, she’d have made an excellent
addition to the team. She hurried out, but two men from the general dining room
rushed inside.

It amazed me how
adult men could lose their shit when face-to-face with their idols. They were
gruff, dirty construction workers probably having a beer after their shift, but
standing in the presence of the team made them as happy as a kid getting a
Playboy for Christmas.

The first man
brushed the dust from his plaid shirt and hollered at the table in glee. The
second, an older and balding man, tried to text with trembling fingers. I gave
him credit. At least his phone had an Ironfield cover.

“Holy shit!”
Plaid hooted. “Goddamn, I’m the biggest Rivets fan in the fucking world. Mind
if we get some pictures?”

Bryon grunted,
freeing his girl from the corner. “Man, we’re eating—”

“It’s okay.” I
scooted the girls from my lap. “I don’t mind.”

Technically, I
was told by my PR team
not
to mind. One of Leah’s fucking rules. Be
gracious to the fans, even if they interrupt your dinner, your night out, or
your score with three beautiful women. After the run-in with the drunk asshole
who thought it’d be a good idea to grab my dick while taking the selfie, Leah
clarified I also wasn’t allowed to punch any fans. Apparently having a bruise
on my cock wasn’t an excuse.

Nothing
was an excuse
for Leah.

“Goddamn, Jack-
fucking
-Carson!”
Plaid stumbled before me to shake my hand. “My oldest son played for Oakdale
High School. He faced you every damn year. You whooped our ass.”

Everyone loved a
local boy. “I broke every record Shawnee Hills had.”

“And State too.”
He pointed at me, posing for the selfie. “Never saw a quarterback like you.
You’re goddamned talented, Carson. One in a million.”

So I’d heard.
Again and again. It didn’t stop them from praising me, and the hundredth time
it was said sounded just as good as the first.

I graced their
camera with a grin that showed both dimples. The women giggled. I offered to
sign an autograph, despite Bryon gesturing like I volunteered to give the fans
a blowjob.

Plaid shook my
hand again. “Can’t wait to tell the guys at work I met a damned hero today.”

The older man
snorted. “
Hero
? Christ. What the hell happened during that championship
game last season? Goddamn, never saw a man choke so bad in my life.”

My team hushed
into silence.

My dimples
disappeared.

The pen tore
through the napkin I meant to sign.

The old man
slapped his friend’s shoulder. “How much money we lose? Five hundred bucks?” He
shook his head. “Third and inches, and you audible and
throw
the ball?
When you got Bryon Washington over there with sixteen consecutive one hundred
yard games? Jesus. That was a bad play call, and you knew it before throwing
the interception.”

It didn’t take a
lot to piss me off, but I didn’t have enough to drink to dull my temper.

Talking about
that game didn’t just tempt the rage. It unleashed it.

Championship
game. Tie-
fucking
-score. We were almost in field-goal range for the last
goddamned minute of the game…and I threw an interception that was run back for
a touchdown.

I still had
fucking nightmares from that game, and this random asshole thought he could
judge me without ever stepping on a football field?
He
lost money? I
lost more than that.

Sponsorships.
The renegotiated contract. My face on every video game.

Respect
.

I slammed the
napkin against the man in plaid. My guys hadn’t moved. Smart.

The older man
sensed he was in mortal fucking danger and wisely cleared his throat. He
thanked us for our time and led his friend away. Plaid scolded him as they ducked
into the main room.

“What the fuck
did you do that for? You’re lucky he didn’t deck you. That bastard is a loose
cannon.”

And so it went.

Cocksuckers. The
only cannon in the room was my goddamned arm, and it was more than ready to
lead us back to the championship.

I snapped my
fingers and summoned the girls to my side.

“We’re leaving.”

The rest of the
team took the hint. The waitress brought the check. I didn’t even look at the
total. I counted out ten, one hundred dollar bills from my wallet and tossed it
on the table. Half of them fell onto the plates of wings and burgers, but the
girl would earn four hundred in a tip if she just wiped the barbeque sauce off
the bills.

I led the women
from the table without a word. Good thing I was taking home three girls. I’d
have to get sucked off twice before I’d relax after dealing with that bullshit.
They could fight over who got the shit fucked out of them first. It didn’t
matter to me which pussy sat on my cock, just so long as they realized what a
goddamned privilege it was to get fucked by me.

Even if I didn’t
have that final win of the season.

Halter-Top
snorted in the parking lot as I led them to my car. “That’s…your ride?”

She needed a
cock in her mouth before she said anything else stupid. I glanced from her to a
beautiful
classic car that shouldn’t have existed in such great shape.
“That is a 1968 Camaro Z28.
Mint
condition.”

“It’s old. I
thought you’d have a Hummer or something.”

Yeah. One of
those sounded perfect about now. I opened the door for her like a gentleman,
but where was the press to take that picture?

“It’s a
classic,” I said. “Anyone can get a Hummer. There’s only a few of these cars
left in good condition.”

Blondie peeked
inside. “It doesn’t have a GPS.”

The brunette
pouted and held out her phone. “I need a charger.”

Jesus Christ.
Three times the pussy, three times the headaches. None of them wanted to ride
in the back seat. I finally pointed Halter-Top and Blondie to the rear.
Brunette would ride with me.

I sunk into my
seat and started the car. It roared to life, a sexy purr that’d sound better
once all three of the women made similar sounds. Black dress knew what to do.
Her hand immediately found my leg. I glanced at the two pouting in the
backseat.

“Feel free to
warm up together.” I peeled from the parking lot. “Gonna be a long night
ladies.”

That got smiles
from them.

The brunette
unzipped my pants as we crossed the bridge to downtown. I adjusted my arm and
let her lean across the seat. She was in for a show.

She gasped as my
cock burst from my jeans—hard, throbbing, and demanding that one of the girls
swallow every inch. Brunette obliged, immediately gagging over the length. I
put up with it until her tooth accidentally scraped me.

Oh, hell no. One
of Ironfield’s famous potholes and I’d be circumcised. I tugged on her hair and
encouraged her to use her hand instead.

It wasn’t as
good, but Blondie and Halter-Top made up for it. They timidly kissed as if
neither of the girls were bad enough to experiment in college. After a few
seconds, they started groaning. Blondie got the right idea. Her fingers slipped
beneath Halter-Top’s shirt and crept up, up, up until her new friend’s eyes
widened and she breathed that telling little
Oh
!

Never let it be
said Jack Carson didn’t offer his girls a good time and a variety of new
experiences.

My luck didn’t
last long. I merged onto the bridge and into traffic just as Brunette screamed.

She braced
herself against the dash as a minivan tried to exit the bridge by cutting
across three lanes of traffic and weaving in front of my car. I jammed the
brakes, but it didn’t do a damn thing when the van swerved into my lane. For
whatever bullshit reason, the van slammed her brakes too.

I couldn’t
prevent the collision.

My pristine 1968
Camaro crashed into some shitty soccer mom’s rusted van. Both vehicles lurched
across the lanes as frames bent and tires popped. My hopes of getting laid
ended as my head bounced off the steering wheel.

Smacking my nose
was better than my arm or knee, but not by much.

The women turned
to banshees, shrieking in terror like the cars crashed and careened over the
bridge and into the water below. My headlights and windshield shattered, but
the van got it worse, twisting into the next two lanes.

Fuck. We blocked
the entire highway.

The traffic
stopped behind us, and I struggled to stuff my cock in my pants before the
frantic van driver launched from her seat and dropped to the road in absolute
hysterics.

My girls burst
from the car too, scampering over each other in a rush to get away from the
crash.

Halter-Top
screamed. “Run! It’ll blow up like in the movies!”

At least she had
a killer rack, even if she didn’t have any fucking common sense.

I kicked open my
door and ran a hand over my bloodied nose. I didn’t care that I probably broke
it. My car was completely
totaled
.

A camera
flashed.

I grunted,
turning to face a slew of onlookers who also rushed from their cars the instant
someone recognized me and screamed my name. Another camera flashed, this time
belonging to the three women I had
escorted
. My dates categorized their
injuries and the damage to the car in detailed selfies.

Those pictured
would be uploaded to the internet in minutes. Not good. I was in enough
hashtags at the moment.

Flashing red and
blue lights lit the distance, speeding to the accident. The arrival of the
police officially ruined my night. The cop jogged from his car and surveyed the
scene. He pulled a flashlight and demanded licenses. Then his light flashed
over my face.

“
Hey
!
You’re Jack Carson!” The cop grinned. It was probably the greatest
first-responder’s call in his life. “I can’t believe it! Name’s Officer Ryan.
You okay, man? What happened?”

I wished my nose
would stop bleeding. “Just had an accident—”

“Can’t be any
worse than that championship game, am I right?”

I forced a
laugh. The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of how bad this would be for
me.

Coach Thompson
would flip his shit. My agent would be tossing Xanax again.

And Leah?

Holy shit.
Unless I wound up in a full-body cast, I had no way to explain this night to
her.

Leah was going
to have my balls.

If she didn’t
kill me instead.

Chapter Two - Leah

“What did you do
this
time?”

I wanted to slam
the door the conference room. I thought better of it as it’d look just as bad as
the headlines this morning. Instead I imagined the click of the latch as a
thunderous crash.

Jack Carson
flashed me a devil-may-care-and-nearly-collected-his-sorry-ass grin. Those
dimples charmed, the fuck-me blue eyes brightened, and every muscle his body
flexed as he stretched his long arms.

He rubbed the
five o’clock shadow on his chin. Jack was the type of man who had a perpetual
scruff, like he rolled out of bed, smoothed his collar-length blonde hair, and
greeted the day with a middle finger and morning wood that’d make an honest,
hard-working girl blush.

And I was the
one who made sunshine out of moonshine and pixies out of the disgraced starlets
sneaking from his bedroom.

Not today.

Oh
, not today.

I was in
no
mood
for Jack “Play-Maker” Carson. I didn’t give a damn what prestige
followed his name. His athleticism might have astounded coaches, players, and
analysts, but Jack had only one nickname with me.

Trouble-Maker.

At least, that’s
the only thing I could call him in polite company without losing my job. He
deserved many more names—starting with
bone-head
and working up to the
insults my father yelled watching his championship game.

“Mornin’, Kiss.”
He gave me a victorious grin that probably melted the panties off the girls
from last night.
If
they had been wearing panties. Knowing Jack, that
was unlikely. “Looking good today.”

“Don’t start,” I
warned.

“What?”

“Don’t you start
with me.”

He surrendered
and held up his hands. His arm was bruised, but not as bad as his face. Did he
break his nose last night? I considered throwing the newspaper at him, but a
calming breath worked wonders to deal with his crises in the past.

I set the
article on the table, neatly folded next to my laptop, cell phone, and
untouched mocha latte. I usually needed the coffee, but anything I drank this
morning would have spit up in a panic. I ordered one anyway, just to give the
appearance that today was like any other scandal. It wasn’t, but I had my own
reputation to maintain.

Three hours of
sleep left me cranky, but that was fine. I could be professional during the
interviews and press conferences.
Cordial
. I’d handle Jack Carson’s
latest catastrophe with the grace expected of T&R Publicists LLC. He hired
us to buff out the blemishes in his reputation. Sometimes we needed a heavy
rag. Today, we…needed a sledgehammer.

This problem
wasn’t like Jack’s other
situations
. It was worse.
Much
worse.
The league scheduled a call for eight AM, and the email we received from the
president wasn’t friendly.

I’d rather deal
with prosecutors and jilted lovers than Frank Bennett, president of the
American League. Not only was he a hard-ass with the teams, he had a hard-on to
destroy Jack’s career.

Which meant he’d
destroy
my
career.

And that was
quite unacceptable.

Jack took the
newspaper and glanced over the headline.
Playboy Quarterback Blitzed In Car
Crash.
The picture was graphic, a candid photo of Jack with blood smeared
over his face and dripping onto his shirt. I ignored the
three
women in
the background of the picture—for now. We had enough work to do.

I didn’t wait
for my boss to arrive. For nearly a year, Jolene had trusted me to tame the
untamable, if only because she had too much of a crush on Jack to take the lead
on his case. Not a problem for me. Jack wasn’t my type. I kept myself out of
trouble.

“What do you
have to say for yourself?” I asked.

Jack shrugged,
those broad shoulders impossibly large. “Anything you want me to say, Kiss.
Isn’t that your job?”

“Don’t call me
Kiss
.”

“I thought you
liked that nickname.”

“I don’t.”

“It suited you.”

How did he annoy
me after only two seconds of conversation? The damn nickname followed me. After
the past Christmas party, I never wore the shimmering gown again, not after
Jack pronounced me his little Hershey’s Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up
in silver silk. The name was funny after two glasses of wine, but a respectable
girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.

“Don’t call me
Kiss
,”
I said. “I’ve told you before.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Many
times.”

Jack tested my
patience with a dangerous smile. “Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I
get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can’t blame a man for becoming
infatuated.”

Oh, please.
“So…you didn’t get any action last night, and now you’re laying it all on me?”

“You’ll know
when I lay on you.”

That wasn’t
ever
going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with
more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star
quarterback’s car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new.
Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for
three
hours on the busiest bridge
out of the city.

“Seriously,
Jack,” I said. “What the hell happened?”

His expression
hardened, as solemn as I could get him. “I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that’s
what happened.”

I ignored the
dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one.
Jack’s agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating
bullets the size of footballs to make it to the office before league president
Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.

“Forget about
the car,” I said.

Jack’s dazzling
smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the
loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humiliate, not the only publicist willing to
take his case.

“Forget the
car
?”
He acted like
that
was the scandal. “It was a
classic
. 302 V8
engine. Four speed manual transmission—”

I already
learned football for this job; I wasn’t taking a literal crash course in cars
too. “Jack, the car doesn’t matter. You had
three
women with you and the
van driver had
just
dropped her children off. You are so lucky you
didn’t slam into a
family
with your…your…”

“My what?”

“Your…whore-mobile!”

“My
whore-mobile
?”

I waved a hand.
“What would you call it?”

He shrugged. “My
totaled
, 1968 goddamned Camaro! Whores
not
included.”

“Oh, sorry.” I
wasn’t. “What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?”

He smirked. “We
were just taking a drive.”

“A drive?”

“I was showing
them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Might not kill you to try
it once in a while.”

His
fun wasn’t my
definition of a good time. “Jack, that fun almost killed
you.
”

“Only makes me
stronger, Kiss.”

“Only makes you
look like more of a playboy.”

Jack’s words
didn’t have a shred of decency or humility. “We were just out for a
drive
.”

I scrolled to a
picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my
laptop so he could see the screen.

“Why was your
fly down?”

Jack tilted his
head as he surveyed the photograph. “Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear
boxers.”

“You think?”

“I almost gave a
free show.” He took too much pride in the picture. “Believe me, this could have
been a
lot
worse.”

He was
delusional. “
How
?”

“Seeing as I was
nearly castrated, be glad we’re talking in your lovely office and not the
hospital.” He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his
career inconvenienced him. “I give a lot to charity already. The last thing
anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my dick.”

“Too much
information.”

“Believe me,
there’s enough to spare.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You might, one
day,” he said. “Never know, Kiss.”

“Neutering you
might actually settle your ass down.”

“I’m never
settling down.”

“What a
surprise.”

Jack crossed his
arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or
not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-shirt as it stretched
against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to
never go out without a suit. His ink—the raging calligraphy and lettering,
words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past—didn’t look like
the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to
endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.

Me included.

“You realize how
bad this looks?” I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and
tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my
patience. “The restaurant you left was
trashed
. The waitresses
humiliated
.
There’s pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a
different woman on your lap all night—”

Jack didn’t
apologize for any of it. “I’m not allowed to have a good time?”

“Your definition
of a good time would entertain
three
men.”

His jaw set.
“Sorry my nights aren’t a half a glass of wine, a thousand piece puzzle, and
Netflix—”

“
Hey
!”

“Sorry, Kiss,
you don’t seem the party type.”

“That’s a
compliment coming from you.”

I was
not
explaining myself to Blowjob McCloseCall. For the past year as lead on his
case, I’d tried my hardest to foster a professional relationship with the least
professional man in the entire American League. No way I’d let that arrogant
manwhore get under my skin.

Or my clothes.

No matter how
much he tried.

Jack laughed.
“You need someone to take you out…and then take you home.”

“Excuse me.
We’re talking about
your
sex scandal first.”

“Gotta have sex
for a scandal.”

“Oh, good. I’ll
just put in the press release you were taking those three floozies to
church
.”

He rapped a hand
on the table. “They weren’t floozies.”

“What were their
names?”

His cocksure
smile faded. He gnawed a lip, but I stopped him before he furrowed his brow.

“You’re
unbelievable, Jack.”

“One
was…Sophie?” He shrugged. “Then there was Halter-Top…and…uh, Blondie.”

“Great.” I
scrolled my email again. “That makes my job easier. Anonymous sex. Fantastic.”

“Technically, it
was supposed to be an anonymous
foursome
.” He crossed his arms behind
his head. “What might have been...”

“I hope you aren’t
this insufferable around your teammates.”

“Kiss, you’re
getting off easy. With them, I’m much worse.”

The door opened.
I stood, welcoming my boss as she escorted Jack’s agent inside. Jolene blushed
the instant she greeted Jack, though she’d never have any luck with the
quarterback.

Then again, he
humped anyone who crossed his path. God only knew who Jack Carson’s next target
would be. I pitied that future girl with her night of meaningless, animalistic
sex in the arms of an athletic, masculine god who wanted nothing more than a
couple hours of utter passion and no regrets.

At least…I
thought I pitied the girl.

Maybe.

Jolene sat at my
side, unable to look at her client. Her crush on Jack was so awkward she let me
take the lead on the case even though I was still her assistant. The hotshot
quarterback was a thorn in our side, but if I could keep him out of trouble,
I’d get a well-deserved promotion. I wasn’t stopping until I got the
partnership in Jolene’s company and became the best publicist in the city.

“Finn.” Jack
nodded to his agent. “How you holding up?”

Finn wiped his
forehead with a handkerchief and juggled a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
“Just got off the phone with Coach Thompson.”

Jolene and I
braced for the worst. Finn pulled his phone from his pocket. His hand left
sweat prints on both the cell and mahogany table. I offered him a glass of
water. He declined, sipping the Pepto instead.