Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (12 page)

No quick retort to that comment.
 

Good.
 

I'm hoping she's visualizing the scene I just set for her. Me laying my head right at the juncture where the inside of her thigh and hip meet. My mouth salivating at what's awaiting me there.
 

When it's soft and beautiful, and I already know that Sabrina's is, there's nothing more satisfying then eating a woman to climax. I have to stroke myself a couple times just imagining it. I find myself doing that a lot lately since I've hired Sabrina.

"You're exhausting," was her only comeback.

I grin to myself.
 

I'm making progress.

She's definitely warming up to me.

SABRINA

A few changes have occurred in the office over the last few days. One of them being that without my input or consent, my cubicle was moved to a space closer to Jason and Samuel's offices. My guess is that Peter did it in an effort to give us more of a team feel since the three of us are essentially the new sports division of Carson Financial.

But I don't like it.

First of all, to the naked eye it looks like Jason and Samuel run the new sports division, and I'm just their executive assistant. That's because they are in two cushy offices, and I'm still sitting at a cubicle. To be fair they were already in those offices, but if we're a sports division team, with clients split evenly, shouldn't I have my own office too?

Secondly, the corner cubicle they've placed me in is by the far window of our floor. A very sunny window which causes an enormous amount of glare on my computer screen and makes my neck hot. The women who have small tropical plants on their desks like it over here, but not me.
 

Thirdly, I don't really need to have Jason a stone's throw away from my desk. He can see and hear damn near everything without any sort of fair warning. Like my embarrassing phone conversations with my mother. Seeing what I eat for lunch everyday. Or how about the moments when I simply need to adjust the panties out of the crack of my butt without an audience (which happens far more than you would think). I've got a wide ass.
 

Finally, I can't keep an eye on my nemesis a.k.a. Abby this far away from where she sits, and that's someone who needs to be watched at all times. If I'm not careful she'll sink her hooks into Spin, and I'll be stuck forever with an arrogant albeit wildly handsome football player. Speaking of the devil, I've got about twenty minutes to haul myself across town and meet his hotness at the car dealership.

***

Saint gives me a complete once over, and then checks his Apple watch as I arrive to the dealership on foot and out of breath. I took the train over and then speed-walked here as fast as I could.
 

"Five more minutes and you would have been late, Miss White."
 

There's something about the way Saint looks at me. The way he says my name. The way he licks the corner of his mouth when he watches me walk towards him or away from him. The way he watches my lips move when I talk. Especially when he frustrates me. Almost as if he likes it.
 

Almost as if it's foreplay.

Good thing I don't carry around any nonsensical ideas of having his babies like most of the groupies I've ever met do. I'm sure sports groupies are just like every other groupie I've ever met. Their sole mission in life is to meet, have sex, and procreate with whatever celebrity idiot they can find. And they find plenty. It amazes me just how irresponsible a lot of these wealthy men are.

"If you're going to force me to call you Saint, then I think I can tolerate you calling me by my first name."

"Nah, I think I'm going to stick with Miss White. It fits you. Respectful, prim, proper, and it fulfills all of my naughty teacher fantasies."

"I'm not your teacher, psycho. We're the same age."

"Can't your uptight ass take a compliment?"

"Funny how that didn't even sound remotely like a compliment."

"Oh, but it certainly is, and I'm being completely professional like you requested."

"I guess in a way you are behaving. I'm sure you're used to saying whatever to your disrespectful, slutty, anything goes type of women."

"That's harsh of you to say, Miss White. I don't slut shame," he chuckles.

"I bet you don't." I respond as a text comes through my phone.

And this is yet another thing that's changed over the last few days. Jason keeping tabs on me at work via text, and I'm not exactly sure of what to make of it. I know he's my mentor, but he's not my boss, and he's been insinuating himself into my business lately as if he is.

Jason: Hey, where are you?

Me: With a client.

Jason: What client?

Me: Saint Stevenson

Jason: Was there a meeting booked on the schedule with him?

In our office we use a shared online calendar that keeps everyone aware of what client meetings we have. We do this to keep things transparent, and so that management can see that we're checking in periodically on our clients.

Me: No, we just have a last minute appointment with a car dealer. Not really worth putting on the calendar.

Jason: Oh ok. The kid wants a new toy, huh? Lol.

While I know their first meeting wasn't the best, there's something about Jason's condescending comment that rubs me the wrong way. I guess I'm a little overprotective of my clients regardless of who they are. I feel like I can talk about Saint in a disparaging way all day if I want, but I'd rather nobody else did. I'm funny like that.

Me: No, he's buying something practical. I'll tell you about it later.

Jason: Look forward to it.

I stare at my cell phone going over that conversation in my mind repeatedly until my trance is broken with a question.

"I suppose that was your
not interested
co-worker again?" Saint asks.

"You don't know how wrong you are about that. He's
so
not interested in me, and yes that was him."

"You've known him for a long time right?"

"Yes, a couple of years. Why?"

"And this is the first time he's taken a serious interest in your work, right?"

"Yes, but I also didn't have you as a client."

"Exactly my point. Did you tell him you were with me?"

"Yes I told him."

"Ha! I bet he's in his office with the door shut, pacing back and forth, totally fuming. Wanting to kick me in the nuts."

"You seem to like to bet on a lot of things. You were trying to make a hundred dollar bet with me over Jason when we first met. Do you have a gambling problem that I need to be aware of?"
 

"I try to only gamble on sure things nowadays." He grins.

"Nothing in life is a sure thing."

"Some things
definitely
are," his voice rumbles. "At least I hope so."

I'm going to choose to ignore the way his suggestive comment makes me feel in between my legs.

Wet.

"So tell me, which of these cars are you thinking about purchasing?" I ask while looking around the showroom a little confused. Most of my clients like to buy higher end cars like Mercedes or BMWs. This is a mid-priced dealership.

"Which one do you like?" he asks my opinion about two different pick up trucks.

"Neither of them. If I had a car, I'd be more inclined to purchase a more environmentally friendly one. Not either of these gas guzzlers."

"I appreciate how you care about global warming, but can I make a case for wanting something just for the sheer beauty of it. I think that's important too."

"Maybe."

"Do you like flowers? Art?"

"Sure."

"Those are all things to admire and enjoy for their beauty, right?"

"Yes, but a bouquet of wild flowers isn't going to cost me a year's salary."

"If you don't make more than what one of these trucks costs, then you may be in the wrong line of work."

"You're so clueless."

"I get it. I get it. What you're saying is that you can appreciate something for its beauty but within reason. There are limits."

He has a way of making me sound so ridiculously boring.

"Let me go find us a sales representative to help us. I'm surprised they haven't met us at the door seeing that you are one of the most recognizable faces in this city." As well as the fact that I called ahead of time.

"New York is different than the rest of the country. Everyone here tries to pretend that they aren't starstruck, so they pretty much leave me alone. It's everywhere else in the country where I'm stuck signing autographs for hours."

"So that's why people at the restaurant didn't approach you but gawked from afar?"

"Exactly and it's kind of why I like it here. I can be anonymous and live a normal life."

"Of course that doesn't explain why you were wearing sunglasses in a restaurant after the sun freakin' set."

Before Saint can retort, a man in blue slacks and a red and blue striped tie briskly approaches us with his hand outstretched for a hand shake.

"I'm so sorry for the wait, Mr. Stevenson. My name is David, and I'm one of the sales associates here. Let me say that our whole team was elated when we received a call from your office letting us know that you would be stopping by."

"My office?" Saint questions.

"That would be me."
Nimwit.

"Oh I'm sorry, are you Miss White?"

"That's me. Thank you for setting aside some time for Mr. Stevenson today. We're interested in taking a look at a few of your trucks and seeing what the best deal is you can offer. We don't require financing, so we're looking for the best cash deal you can offer."

"We will give Mr. Stevenson the best deal humanly possible. He is a hero around these parts. We certainly want his business."

A hero? Give me a break. It's just a game, people.

"All right then," Saint interrupts. "Let's go find me another beautiful depreciating bad investment."

Poor David looks confused by Saint's choice of words, while I shake my head in silent laughter.
 

This guy.

***

Saint ends up buying a dark gray, metallic pick up truck, and I must say I was impressed to hear it was so that he could start taking his nephew Jake skiing and snow boarding upstate. I'm pretty sure my new client has a soft spot for his family, which is great to see. It might be the only genuinely humble part of him.

"You have time for lunch?" he asks.

"I really should head back to the office. I've got quite a bit of work to do."

"I'm not sure how I feel about sharing you with those reality show housewives."

"I only represent one housewife, Saint. The other two are on singing competition shows."

"Well I don't see why you can't pass them on to someone else and only handle me. Can't you tell that I'm an attention seeking whore?"

I quickly check my calendar and the time. "All right Mr. Needy, I can spare about forty-five minutes."

"Sweet. I know just the place."

"Where?"

"I'm taking you for a little slice of heaven."

"Pie?"

"No and stop trying to guess. Your need to know every single detail before you do or go anywhere is not good for your mental health. Live a little."

"Whatever. Let's go. The clock is ticking."

***

I'm in a restaurant the size of a walk-in closet on a side street in Greenwich Village with the largest slice of Sicilian pizza in my mouth that I've ever had. If I'm not careful, my eyes are going to roll to the back of my head.

"Heaven right?" Saint asks with an "I told you so" look on his face.

I nod my head, because I can't talk. My cheeks are full of cheesy dough.

Finally I swallow.

"The crust is amazing. How did you find this place?"

"It's a neighborhood haunt. Strictly word of mouth. The owners have been here for thirty years. Cute little Italian couple. The husband still mixes the dough himself every morning."

I wipe my mouth.

"I guess that's why it's so good."

"So you're not from New York?"

"No, I've lived here since my NYU days. I'm originally from Colorado Springs."

"That's a big move."

"I wanted something different. Ever since high school, I've loved numbers, and I thought that I'd be working on Wall Street, which is why I planned on a New York school but plans change."

"How so?"

"I had a hard time making friends when I first moved to New York. I started checking out some local bands as a way to get out and be social, since I wasn't much of a partier, and fell in love with the scene. Decided I wanted to be part of that world in some way. Since I can't sing or write songs, I figured I could manage their money. It's my way of being part of that world without having to actually be the talent."

"Who's your favorite band?"

"Spin."

"I've got a couple of their songs. They're cool."

"They're actually one of the groups we represent."

"Why don't you work with them since you're such a fan?"

"Spin is a super group. They make more money than you," I chuckle, "If your ego can believe it. Mr. Carson's wife used to be their money manager."