Dirty Player: A Rough Riders Novel (3 page)

It was sexy in that sinful-wanting way.

I wanted the attention. It didn’t matter if it was for a night, a few hours, or a drink and just a look.

Walking in on Patrick fucking his co-worker at a party thrown for us by his firm had shaken my foundation. Damaged my ego.

But I’d promised not just myself, but also Melissa, that I’d throw my middle finger in the air as I left Des Moines and do whatever I needed to do to let go.

Even if it was only a few hours of pretending.

Fake it ‘til you make it, though, right?

That was Melissa’s advice. I was grabbing onto it with both hands and holding on as tightly as I could.

Once I was dressed, my hair teased and held back from my face with a few sparkly pins, my makeup heavy and smoky-eyed, and my lips a devil’s red, I slipped on heels and headed downstairs, shutting my door on the mess I’d left in the room.

I’d clean it and repack over the weekend. Beaux told me I could stay at his place as long as I needed to, but the apartment came partly furnished with enough to get me started…a lumpy couch, a bed that needed to be tossed twenty years ago, and dining room table. But it didn’t matter. I was twenty-eight years old and finally moving into my very own place, responsible for the success of a business I’d always dreamed would become more than just an online store.

Now that I’d had time for the idea to sink in, my mind was filling with ideas on marketing and jewelry designs, space planning and things I wanted to do to get my name out there—Arts Festival included.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Beaux asked as I reached the living room. He had a beer hanging loosely between his fingertips and he dropped it to his side as I entered the room.

“This old thing?” I spun in a circle and laughed when he cursed.

“Fucking shit. You are. You’re going to kill me, probably trying to get me murdered so you can cash in on my life insurance.”

“You’re an ass.” I swatted him with my handbag and went to the kitchen, helping myself to a beer. “When do we leave?”

“In a hurry to see someone?”

The image of a sweaty and surly Oliver Powell flashed behind the lids of my eyes.

“No.”

“Liar.”

I shrugged and took a swig of my drink. Cool beer. So much better than the crap Patrick insisted I drank—from the chilled sparkling wine to fruity mixed drinks.

God, what a pain in the proper ass he was.

I blinked, vanishing the reminder from my mind, and jumped when Beaux was directly in front of me.

“You hear from that asshole lately?”

“A few times,” I admitted. My ability to lie to anyone, but mostly Beaux, was nonexistent. “He’s been apologizing.”

Which was why I needed this new start. I could barely go anywhere in Des Moines without running into memories of Patrick, the way he’d worked so hard to seduce me, to claim me in the first place.

We’d been everywhere together. Five long years flushed down the toilet. And he had apologized, but it was always in the tone of voice. The one I was only beginning to understand. The one that taunted and teased…whispered I wasn’t as good as him—that I’d never done anything good on my own.

My shoulders slumped and Beaux growled—that sound he made when I knew he had his fists clenched and wanted to pummel the guy.

“It’s fine, Beaux.” I turned from him so he couldn’t read the truth in my eyes. I wasn’t fine. The breakup wasn’t fine. Nothing about my humiliation and canceled wedding plans—canceled future—was fine.

“Do me a favor?” he asked, and for a moment I was grateful he was dropping the subject.

“What? Anything.”

“Stay away from Powell tonight.”

And then he had to ruin my fun.

Not that I had planned on it, not that I could get his attention or keep it for more than a few hours. But wasn’t that what I was looking for? Oblivion?

I rolled my lips and nodded.

Beaux read my silence and threw his head back on a sigh. “He’s my teammate, Shan. And a prick. I’m serious, this guy is bad news.”

“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.” That was a promise. Fortunately for me, Beaux’s list of
wouldn’t
do
s was pretty short.

He caught my meaning and scowled. “That doesn’t help.”

I grinned. “It helps me.” Setting down my drink, I curled my fingers around his forearm. “Come on. Take me out and get me drunk so I can forget all about Patrick.”

“With fucking pleasure.”

***

While the music from the main floor beneath the VIP area was muted, the lights still flickered and the vibrations of the bass could still be felt at my feet.

Being with a dozen or more football players had its perks, definitely.

For the last hour, Beaux had taken me around to most of his teammates and some of their girlfriends, introducing me. While I had three years’ experience meeting professional ball players, and more years’ experience talking to ball players with egos bigger than brains and talent, it never grew old.

I had fallen in love with football right along with Beaux—from the plays and the stress to the art and finesse of the game. So many of the men I’d met, I’d watched on television or cheered for when Beaux or I were in college.

It never became less awe-inspiring. I was never less enamored shaking hands with men Beaux and I had grown up admiring or worshipping.

The club we were in whispered of wealth, from the chandeliers to the sparkling crystal glasses. Perhaps it was just the pretentiousness of the VIP area, secluded away with our own private bar and bottle service, admittance only allowed with names on a list and a bouncer at the bottom of the stairway preventing just anyone from sneaking in.

It was too similar to what I’d recently walked away from to enjoy fully. I had tried, but after the sweet, tart taste of a Red Bull and vodka and then the scowl from the barely dressed waitress when I’d ordered a beer from the tap—anything, because I didn’t care as long as it was cold—I gave up on the idea of getting stupid drunk.

A slight buzz was all I needed anyway, and after a while—the murmurs of conversation going on at the high-top table around me, Beaux lost in getting to know his new teammates—I caved to my creativity that had begun its seductive whisper.

Ideas were racing through my mind. Floor plans. Set up tables. Bracelets. Necklaces and charms with matching earrings. Stamped metal designs paid pretty well, especially depending on the types of metal I used. I had started in college, making a few pieces here and there for myself and then selling them to girls in sororities. Everyone wanted something one of a kind—made for them and their personalities. While they’d been having their fun, partying away the best four years of their lives, I’d still been running Beaux around to practices, helping him with his homework, and making sure he made varsity. When he grew older and could drive himself, I still went with him on college visits to tour campuses and talk to scouts and football coaches—all while trying to take care of our ill mother.

When she passed away before she could see Beaux graduate college, the entire burden of the house and the bills and life had fallen on my shoulders. What I wouldn’t have given during those years to be one of those sorority girls with wallets as deep as their dads would allow and no worries in the world other than finding a new fashionable accessory and being the first to own it.

I had envied them. I wanted to live that life now, but responsible and cautious weren’t character traits easily shaken.

Plus, I hadn’t had decent design ideas in months, but the historic and rugged look of the building Beaux had rented for me, lease fully paid for a year, had lit a spark.

Or perhaps that was the freedom of knowing I could finally do what I’d always wanted.

Perhaps Beaux was right. I’d earned every bit of his success right along with him. I didn’t begrudge him for it. I was proud of him. There was also something to be said for having a piece of life that was all yours—although I fully intended to pay him back for every cent he’d already spent.

A large hand slammed down over the napkin I was currently doodling on.

“You are not spending the night with a pen in your hand and your face to the table.”

I shrugged off Beaux’s scolding tone and scrunched my face. “I finally have ideas, though.”

I looked down at the designs he’d covered with his hand. Six interlocked bracelets, able to be undone, put back together, worn in six different patterns. Complicated, but replicated with different types of metals, or using one for the whole thing, I could make eight different designs and they’d all look unique.

“Well, tell your brain to shut up for the night. It’s on vacation. You need it.”

Before I could protest, a tray of golden-colored shots was presented and set on the table. A bowl of limes next, and a shaker of salt.

I glared at Beaux. “You’re kidding me.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “They’re not all for you.”

“Is she always this greedy?” 

I turned toward the new voice and grinned. I’d been standing next to Kolby Jones for most of the night. He seemed more enamored with the celebrities in our midst than I was.

But then again, he’d only had three months since the draft to get used to this new life. A wide receiver drafted in the first round, seventh pick, he’d gone to Raleigh lower than originally anticipated. His speed and ability to snag the ball out of anywhere in the air as long as it was within five feet of him, regardless of how many defenders he had on him, had helped lead Alabama to three national championships in a row.

He was way too young for me, but his light mocha skin and bulging muscles and kind smile made him easy on the eyes. He was also a single dad to a three-year-old girl, and more down to earth than anyone I’d ever met.

Of course, there was still time for that to change.

“I’m not greedy,” I replied while I snagged a tequila shot. 

“Don’t let her fool you, Kolby. She’s a viper.”

I snorted and licked my wrist. “Right. I’m a regular siren.”

Beaux caught the defeated tone in my voice and kicked me under the table.

“Your problem,” he said, reaching for his own shot and sliding one to Kolby, “is that you tried for years to be good enough for some limp-dicked prick, and never once realized that you were too good for him to begin with.”

“Ah, guy trouble. That’s what the tequila is for.”

I shot a glance toward Kolby and tapped my glass to his. “The tequila is for fun.”

Screw it. I didn’t need Beaux’s reminder or pep talk.

Kolby sent me a smirk and our glasses clinked together before we shot the liquor.

The burn hit my tongue, my throat, clawing its way down to my stomach. I pressed my lips together and took the lime Beaux offered, thankful for the sour to help.

I still couldn’t hold back the face I pulled as I took one last swallow. Nothing evaporated it until Beaux handed me another shot.

“After three it doesn’t hurt so much.”

“Fantastic. Once I can’t feel anything then it will taste good.”

“Yup.” Kolby and Beaux slammed another shot with me before Kolby slid his glasses and limes into the center of the table.

I took my third without hesitating. “Where’s your daughter tonight?”

Kolby took a sip of his water glass. “With my ma. They’re at home, unpacking.”

He shook his head, his eyes filled with that same awed look Beaux had for the entire first year of playing for the Vikings. The “how did this become my life?” look.

I still saw it spark in Beaux from time to time, but a few years in, the wealth and shock was diminishing and being replaced with a new normal.

“You moved your mom up here, too?”

A muscle popped in his cheek and I sensed I’d touched a topic he didn’t want to discuss. “Ma’s the only one I trust to watch Mya.”

I didn’t understand the love a parent had for their child—not personally—but I’d seen my mom sacrifice in order to try to give us everything. It was that memory, of my mom coming home from work only to have time to shower and go to another job, that made me slide my hand around Kolby’s shoulder and squeeze. “You’re a good dad, Kolby.”

“Let’s hope she thinks so.”

“She will.”

“Need more shots?” Beaux asked, his hand already in the air and waving down the waitress.

The burn of the liquor in my veins made my cheeks and chest warm. I was feeling relaxed and tipsy.

I shook my head. “No. One more beer and I should be good.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “So much for drunk and stupid.”

“Oh, there’s still plenty of time for stupid.”

“Right,” Beaux teased. “Of course.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. We both knew me. I had never been a partier and with the drinks and the warmth and the dim lights, I already wanted to get to the apartment and start cleaning the shower and floors so I could move in.

I had too much of my mom in me, and not enough of Beaux. I blamed the fact that we had different fathers.