Read Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Online
Authors: Teagan Kade
Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (20 page)
ANDY
I do whatever it takes to win. That’s why I’m a Formula One champion. And I’m going for the prize again this year, no matter what my team says. But I’ll play their game—so long as it benefits me.
Now there’s a beautiful woman traveling with me to make sure I wear the team sponsor’s outfits and smile at all the right moments. I’m going to make Sara smile, all right. But not about what I’m wearing.
In fact, clothes won’t be involved at all.
SARA
Working PR for a fashion house and traveling the world? I’m not complaining. Even if it means putting up with a womanizer like Andy.
Yes, he’s sexy as hell. But I’m nothing to him—just another score, someone to warm his sheets for a night and then be forgotten. He’s going to learn I’m not that easy.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Burned: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance
My stepbrother Brock—the street racer, the panty-dropper, the absolute and utter as*hole.
But sometimes wrong is the only way to ride…
Royally Wrong: A British Bad Boy Romance
Fifth in line to the throne.
Off the rails.
Drop dead-freakin’-gorgeous.
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Beverly Bernard
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Contents
DEDICATION
For Kiki, you big poser you.
SCARLET
The moment that ball hits the back of the net, I know there’s going to be trouble.
The crowd doesn’t care who scored, only that Victory FC has another win. They erupt as one, pounding feet making the grandstands rattle. The horn goes and it’s done, the Silverbacks already skulking away from the field.
The crown jewel of Victory, Jensen Collins, does a backflip, fist-pumping the air and screaming “Fuck yes!” over and over, running to the sidelines and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. He takes hold of his jersey and tears it in two like it was a piece of paper, points to the rippling corrugations of his abs with one hand while grabbing his crotch with the other. He’s ridiculous, completely over the top, but everyone loves him—Jetstream Jensen the hero, the untouchable.
I’m laughing at the spectacle until I see Josh,
my
Josh. He’s at the back of the field looking on, hands on his hips. He spits to the ground but never takes his eyes off his twin brother. Yet again Jensen has stolen his thunder, swooping in for the final goal. He looks pissed. He looks like he’d stab Jensen in the back if he had a knife, nothing but hatred hanging off his frame. I know that look. I know it far too well now.
I leave Jensen to his groupies and whooping fans, searching the field for Josh, but he’s gone.
“He’s so fucking hot,” says a Hannah Montana lookalike sitting behind me, eyes locked on Jensen. She’s got to be all of fourteen. “I’d do nasty, nasty things to that body,” continues her friend. I can’t imagine either of them has seen a penis in their life, let alone what the press like to call ‘the hammer’. I smirk, standing.
It’s a fight to get to the players’ parking lot. There’s a full moon peeking through spectral clouds above, and I’m quite certain it’s turned everyone in here insane. I swing around a guy hanging like a bat from an overhead beam, shirt over his head. A bottle smashes beside me. A guy reaches to grab my butt, but he’s so drunk he connects with the wrist of a six-six super-jock in front of me.
Have fun with that…
Everyone’s laughing, high on the win, but my face shows only concern. Yes, Victory won, but I’m the one who’s going to cop the brunt of Josh’s anger. I can’t believe Coach allowed that play, if he did at all. He’s got a brother. Surely he knows that’s a recipe for disaster if ever there was one, an Edward-and-Jacob-esque alpha dick-swinging contest that can only go one way.
I’m stuck at a bottleneck of congestion near the hotdog stand to get through the gates. I check my watch. Josh has had a full fifteen minutes now to simmer, but I know that’s not how it works. He’ll let it brew, wait for me.
I take out my cell and call him, but there’s no answer. All I can hope is for is that he’s taking a cold shower
well
away from Jensen.
I make it through the human meat grinder and dart left, actually running because I’m so concerned something is going to go down, but when I make it to the parking lot neither Jensen nor Josh is to be found. It’s not a good sign.
I lean against the wall by the exit door, watch the other Victory players fire up their toys—the Harleys and Hummers and Ferraris they go through like socks. Soon they’re all gone but for Josh’s Mustang and Jensen’s Charger—arguably the two finest examples of American muscle.
How fitting,
I muse.
The temperature’s largely apathetic, neither hot nor cold, but I’m shaking all the same, shaking and sweating like a damned junkie as I wait.
Please, please let him be okay.
I can’t handle another one of his moods, his tantrums—not tonight.
Josh emerges in jeans and a wife-beater. For a brief second the parking-lot lights reveal him until he’s swallowed up into the darkness again, yet this one small moment of illumination tells me all I need to know. His knuckles are white holding his bag, jaw set and stiff.
I clear the cotton wool from my throat and call out to his back. “Josh.”
He snaps around at his name, dropping his bag and heading straight for me with purpose. He goes in and out of the light as he paces—in and out, in and out.
I push back against the wall harder. It’s solid, reassuring.
“Josh, don’t worry about it.” I move to reach out to him, but he takes hold of my wrist.
He reeks of bourbon, eyes reflector red. He usually saves the drinking for home. “Did you see that shit? That fucking asshole stole
my
goal.”
“Josh—”
He presses harder, taking a step forward and pinning me to the wall. He lifts my chin up with one finger. “Jesus, Scarlet, you’re on
his
side, aren’t you?”
I know nothing I can say is going to help, so I remain silent.
“It’s your fucking fault, you know.”
“My fault?” I reply, defensively, hands against the wall. “How can it be
my
fault?”
With a shove, Josh releases me, stepping back and shaking his head. “You distracted me.”
Unbelievable. “You asked me to come, Josh, to support you, and I did. I always do.”
“Support?” he scoffs, spinning and stumbling, words slurring. “I see you sitting up there with your tits out, letting every guy in here drool and slobber over you. It’s fucking disgusting, Scarlet. No,” he points, “it’s pathetic.”
I cross my arms over myself. I’m blonde, I have breasts, yes, but I’m wearing a blouse buttoned to the top, jeans. I’m not one of
those
player’s girlfriends, a glorified handbag whose whole life revolves around idolizing the players and the infamy it brings them. I don’t want to be part of that reality-show life. It’s too fake, too tacky.
But he gets to me. He knows he’s hurting me, and I can see by the glint in his eye the way he enjoys it. This too is sport for him.
He comes close, so close I can make out each individual grain of stubble, the dark shadow that never leaves his face no matter how much he shaves. For a moment I see the boy I fell for behind the mask, but it’s gone, replaced with a drunk, moody mousetrap that’s ready to snap at any moment.
“Josh, please,” I beg, reaching up and holding his face, my tears building and threatening to overflow.
He swats my hands away and pokes me, hard, in the forehead. “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s in your head.”
I know exactly who he’s talking about, but I act dumb. “Who, Josh? You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s fucking
him
. Tell me!” he screams.
I look around, but it’s just us.
He lowers his voice. “Holy shit. Are you fucking him, Scar? Are you fucking my brother?”
It’s a ridiculous notion. Josh knows it, but still he pushes, looming over me, beating me down with his words. “You fucking are, aren’t you? You’re sucking his cock day and night like the dirty fucking whore you’ve become.”
It’s the liquor talking, but it still hurts. The tears loose themselves, fall fat from my cheeks. “No, Josh. I’m not.”
“Maybe not,” he shrugs, brows gathering, “but you’re thinking about it. I know you are. He’s always fucking there waiting to steal everything I have, waiting with his perfect fucking smile to railroad my life, but you know what? I’m not going to let him. You’re mine, Scar. We belong together and there’s no fucking way Jetstream Jockstrap Jensen is going to take you too.”
I don’t even know why I’m pleading, why I do this to myself. I’m smarter than this. “You’re not making sense.”
He looks around for his bag, more likely the bottle inside it. He spots it on the ground but can’t be bothered to make the short walk to retrieve it. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares, stares until the lever drops and he snaps well and good.
He jumps against me and I freeze, muttering “Josh” over and over, head turned and eyes closed as he barks into my ear, lets out all the bile and hatred. I’ve heard it all before, too many times recently—‘bitch’, ‘cunt’.
They’re only words,
I remind myself, but I’m affected all the same.
It’s Jensen he’s angry at, not you,
but it sure as hell
feels
like me.
He finishes, spittle hot on the side of my face, the heady cocktail of bourbon and BO oozing from his pores. He steps back, smiling, pleased he’s managed to take this small win, to break me down and keep his power.
He used to be sweet and kind, a guy you’d rush to your mother, but ever since the money he’s changed. I don’t know how much more I can handle.
I take my chance. I duck under his arm and run to the players’ tunnel, press myself into an alcove and hunker down.
I hear his car start, tires turning to smoke as he peels out of the parking lot. I feel relief, if anything.
I take five, brush the tears away and compose myself.
Never again,
I tell myself, knowing full well I lack the internal fortitude to stand up to him. The pep coach I’ve always imagined as a cross between Oprah and Barbara Walters sits on my shoulder, a stream of hippie self-help following.
Where there is struggle, there is strength.
Turn your wounds into wisdom.
Be fearless.
Be confident.
I laugh. Mom always fell for that kind of nonsense, even kept a vial of Peter Popoff’s Miracle Spring Water in her purse. I said I’d never be so gullible, so weak, but here I am. Everything tells me I should get as far away from Josh as possible, but I can’t even take the first step.
Get a grip, Scarlet. Keep this up and you’ll find yourself in an Eames recliner yapping away to a stranger about your daddy issues and love of late-night TV.
I come out of the alcove and straight into the path of the human apartment block that is Jensen Collins.
“Scarlet?” comes his startled reply.
I’ve always been able to see the resemblance between the twins, but Jensen’s eyes are deeper set beneath strong, dark brows, lashes for days. He’s the taller of the two, a good head above me. I linger on the shape of his mouth—the way his lip is a quiet curve, lower lip full.
There is an awkward moment in which I remain semi-crouched with my hands flat against his iron abs, eyes fixed to the bulge in his shorts and my brain short-circuiting, shouting ‘Penis, penis, penis!’ as I try uselessly to form words and stand.
He lifts me up, hands lingering longer than they should on my elbows. We look at each other and not even a Bowie knife could cut the tension. This is how it’s always been, the two of us skirting cautiously around one another, the ice thin.
He looks back with hazel eyes even Channing Tatum would be jealous of, eyes so deep and striking I’m quite sure they contain the meaning of life.
Maybe they do.
I scold myself and stand straight. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” I blurt out. Read: Never say the first thing that pops into your head.
You’re lucky it wasn’t ‘penis’.
Jensen looks at me, corners of his mouth pulling down in surprise. “Quite the deduction. Gave it to some kid in the first row. Probably wind up as a cum rag.”
I see his back reflected in a window down the hall. There’s a tattoo of an eagle spanned out across it. I remember something in an interview about how he said it made him “soar” during the game. I had a good laugh at that, though for whatever reason I never threw that magazine out. That’s the problem with Jensen, once he’s in your head…
“You okay?” he continues, tilting his head and noticing my puffy eyes.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Great game, by the way.”
He ignores the compliment. “Is it Josh? If he’s being an ass…”
“I can handle it,” I smile, tooth-fairy believable.
Jensen’s boots hang from his bag. He smells of grass, sweat—something organic and primitive I know I should stay the hell away from. He’s a born hunter, and I’m not talking about nutrition. No, Jensen’s a player on
and
off the field. That’s no secret. Hell, you could build a bridge to China with the dick pics alone.
Penis, penis, penis!
Shut up, brain.
He reaches out to comfort me but draws his hand back at the last second, the touch too taboo. If Josh even knew we were together… “Look, I’m not going to apologize for that goal. Josh will just have to get over it. We’re twins, not best friends. This is a game and I’m going to be the best no matter what it takes. It’s simple.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.”
For a split second Jensen’s eyes fall, hover on my chest and lift. “That’s always been Josh’s problem. He can’t see what’s right in front of his face.”
My cheeks burn harder, a strange thrumming turning me into a human Theremin. I feel the hot stroke licking between my legs whenever I’m close to Jensen. It’s dangerous. “I, I’ve got to go.”
I turn and start walking back to the main parking lot, my heart an eleven-ounce butterfly trying to flap away from my chest.
“See you later,” he says, and it’s wrong, but I want to. I’m with Josh, but I’m thinking of Jensen. I was brought up better than that. Besides, too much has happened. I couldn’t do it, become another one of Jensen’s conquests, a headline in the social pages next to Grace Gigglealot and Sheila Superboobs.
