Rookie Mistake (12 page)

Wilshire Regent Condominiums

Los Angeles, CA

“It was a nightmare,” Hollis groans at the ceiling.

I take a slow sip of my wine, looking down at him on the floor from where I’m curled up on the couch. “It must have been, because you’ve gone full diva on the ground.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

“Don’t be a drama queen.”

“He wore a tank top to dinner. I’ve earned this.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“The gym, where he was also wearing a tank top. I had no idea it was the only type of shirt he owned.”

“Maybe he’s legally required to keep his guns in plain view. Not everyone has a concealed weapons permit.”

Hollis rolls his head on the plush white rug, glaring at me. “You think you’re being funny, don’t you?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“It’s not funny. It’s tragic. I give up. I’m going to go be gay somewhere else. It’s not working out here.”

I snort. “If you can’t make being gay work in Los Angeles, you can’t make it work anywhere.”

“The New York office could be nice.”

“You can’t leave me and I can’t move to New York. The air quality is shit. My asthma can’t handle it.”

He sits up, his hair falling wildly over his forehead. “The air quality in L.A. is shit!”

“Yeah, but it’s the shit I know. It’s probably what gave me my asthma. If I go somewhere else my system will go into shock and I’ll die.”

“Now who’s being a drama queen?”

“You’re staying here.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

My land line rings on the glass table next to me. Hollis frowns at it. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“No.”

“A gentleman caller at this hour? Scandalous,” he sings.

I roll my eyes at him, reaching for the phone. “Hello?”

“Ms. Ashford,” the concierge responds formally, “you have a visitor. A Mr. Domata.”

I check the time on my watch. It’s almost nine. “Uh, let him up. Thank you, Douglas.”

“You’re welcome, Miss.”

“Let who up?” Hollis demands as I hang up the phone.

“Trey is here.”

His eyebrows shoot into his hair. “What does he want?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Sloane.”

“It’s not a big deal. We’ve been hanging out a lot lately.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I glare at him impatiently. “He’s nervous about the Draft. I’m sort of a sponsor for him. I keep him from Googling his name every hour.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Nope.”

“Does
he
want me to go?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s my house.”

“Well, technically—“

“Shut up.”

Technically
it’s my dad’s house. His condo. He owns it along with three others spread out across the city. I rent this one from him for probably half of what I should pay along with the HOAs, and someday I hope I can buy it from him. Make it my own. Get out from under his thumb and his wallet.

The doorbell rings gently through the space. Hollis is up on his feet, smoothing back his hair before I can set down my wine.

“I’m going to go,” he tells me, leading the way to the door.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but I will.” He pauses with his hand on the knob, leaning down to kiss me on the cheek. “Be good,” he whispers.

“I will.”

He opens the door. Trey is standing there in a white shirt, a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and sandals. He looks too comfortable, too casual to be so sexy, but it’s not the clothes he’s wearing. It’s the way he wears them. The way he stands. The way he smiles when he sees me.

Trey nods to Hollis, not the least surprised to find him here. “Hey, man.”

Hollis gives him the dude chin jut. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“It’s going. You?”

“Shit night. I had to vent, but she’s all yours now.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Hollis steps past Trey, turning to motion for me to call him later. He checks out Trey’s ass before he goes.

“Sorry to stop by so late,” Trey apologizes quietly. “I hope I didn’t run him off.”

“No, he was done bitching and I was running out of wine. He would have left soon anyway. Do you want to come in?”

“Is that okay?”

“Are
you
okay?” I ask, his subdued attitude putting me on edge. He’s quarterback Trey tonight. The man on the field without feeling, only instinct.

“I did something tonight,” he tells me calmly. “I’m not sure if you’re going to like it, but I had to do it. I couldn’t leave things the way they were.”

My heart skips a beat, my face flushing hot with a nervous energy. “What’d you do?”

“I got out of my contract with your dad. I signed a new one with your name on it.”

“H—how did you do that? You didn’t promise him anything, did you?”

“I promised I’d stop throwing punches.”

“What?!”

He holds up his right hand. It’s swollen and red, dried blood and white powder running into a mud colored paste that’s caked on the back of his fingers.

“Did you beat up Brad?” I demand angrily.

“No, just his wall.”

I grab his wrist, pulling him inside. When the door is shut and we’re completely alone I look more closely at his hand. It’s a mess of cuts and bruising, but it’s not that bad. Not as awful as I first thought.

“You punched his wall? Is your hand okay?”

Trey flexes his fingers into a fist and back out again. “A couple times, and yeah. I’m good.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To show him I was serious. I told him that I didn’t want him on my contract anymore. I said I wanted you as my agent. He said no, so I hit the wall.”

“Twice?”

“He didn’t listen the first time.”

I close my eyes, feeling like I’m falling. “Why did you do this?” I whisper.

“Because it’s what’s right.”

“It’s impulsive. It’s everything we’ve been trying to avoid.” I open my eyes to stare up at him in amazement. “You can’t shake everything up at the eleventh hour.”

“We’re days away from the Draft. It was now or never, and I couldn’t go through with it knowing he was going to get the credit for everything that you’ve done for me. I owed you more than that.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Not anymore.”

I sigh, taking his left hand, his undamaged hand, and leading him to my bathroom. We pass through my bedroom to get there and my heart rate spikes just having him in here. I look over my shoulder to find him taking the space in; the tall ceilings, the soothing gray walls, rough wood headboard, lavender comforter. My workpants draped across the bed next to my blouse, discarded when I came home and changed into the soft denim and flowing tank top I have on now. I’m aware of how casual we both look. How unprofessional this entire situation is, and always has been.

I let go of his hand because I have to, for so many reasons, and I turn on the tap. I wave him over to the sink. “Come here. I’ll clean your hand.”

“Why aren’t you happy about this?”

“Because it was dangerous and I don’t believe it’s over yet,” I answer impatiently, taking his hand. I test the water to make sure it’s not too hot before pulling his knuckles under the slow stream. “You think he was trying to sink you before? Imagine what he’ll do now that he’s not financially invested in you.”

“It’d be a bad day for him to sink me. He still holds all of my endorsement commissions.”

I hesitate, processing this new information. I look up at Trey to find him watching me intently. “You split the contract?”

“He holds the commission on my endorsements,” he repeats for my benefit. “You hold commissions on my career.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“It seems fair. He brought me all of my endorsements.”

“They came to him, but that’s true. He did filter them.”

Trey frowns. “They came to him?”

I nod, turning my eyes to his hand. I add soap to my fingers and use it to gently wash the back of his hand. “Ever since we signed you, companies have been calling non-stop.”

“Why have I only heard about three of them?”

“Because Brad is being selective about who he talks to about you. He’s actually doing a great job of it. You have an image to keep up and he’s protecting that. It’s the reason they’re running to you. You’re handsome, talented, charismatic. Advertisers eat that shit up, but put a wholesome, all American guy like you in an ad for Japanese sex dolls and suddenly you’re worth nothing to the big boys like Nike.”

“Wholesome?” he asks incredulously. It sounds like he’s offended, and by the word wholesome, not the idea that he’d peddle sex dolls for money.

I cut the water before snapping a dark gray towel from the rack behind me. “Trust me, compared to a lot of athletes out there, you’re wholesome. You’re not Little House on the Prairie, but you’re definitely Brady Bunch.” I gently pat his hand dry. “No arrests, no complaints from teammates or coaching staff. You had that parking ticket three years ago but the world can afford to forgive one infraction. We don’t want you
too
shiny. Everyone likes a guy with some edge.”

“It shouldn’t surprise me that you of all people know about that parking ticket.”

“It was in your background check. The NFL knows about it too.” I smile at him wryly. “They’re very disappointed in you.”

He grins. “I’m screwed.”

“Have been for months,” I grunt as I bend down under the sink to get my first aid kit. “We’re going to the Draft as a formality. Please be gracious when you pass through the entire process unchosen.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I pull a small bottle of peroxide from the red bag, my eyes on my hands. “You’re joking about it. That’s a good thing, right?”

“I’m calm,” he assures me, his voice so low and so close. Too close.

“I can see that.” I dab the soaked rag on his knuckles. He hisses faintly but holds perfectly still, his large hand resting inside mine. His shoulder brushing against me as he breathes. “Putting holes in the wall absolutely screams ‘calm’.”

“I’m better now.”

“Now that you got it out of your system.”

“Now that I got you what you deserve.” He hesitates, the air around us taking on an electric quality that tingles over my skin. “Now that I’m here with you,” he whispers.

His breath brushes against my neck. It tickles the hair falling carelessly down from my ponytail. It touches every part of me as a wave of goosebumps rushes over me.

I try to ignore it, to ignore him. I carefully clean his hand before pulling out a roll of gauze and medical tape. He has to help me hold it in place. Our fingers brush against each other as I loop the tape over his hand, around and around until I finally cut it carefully. And just like that I’m free. My hands are empty of him, but he’s still in my space. He makes no move to leave it.

I don’t dare look at him. I can feel his eyes on me as heavy as if they were his hands, and then there it is. His fingers on the small of my back. His palm. His hot skin heating my body through my thin shirt until it bubbles up in my blood. He pulls me around to face him, and finally I lift my eyes to his.

They’re hooded and hungry. They want all the things we’ve denied ourselves night after night, and I feel so much need inside my stomach that I swear I’m starving. I’m dying. I’m drowning in all of the nothing when all I want is just a little something. One bite to get me through another day. Another month of seeing him, unable to touch him as an ever growing part of me cries out for him.

He lowers his head slowly. His mouth finds the corner of mine. My cheek. My nose. My eyelids. He breathes across my skin, setting me on fire as my hands clench in his shirt. He barely touches me, only feather light kisses dotted across my face and down my neck, across my collar bone and back up to my ear. He sucks my lobe into his mouth and my knees go weak. I stumble against him as he pins my ass to the sink and grinds his body against mine, slow and tortuous.