Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (42 page)

“Yes, you'll be working for me,” corrected Bradley softly, his eyes smiling. “Is there a problem?”

“No, of course not – I just, I don't have a lot of experience in personal assisting, but I can assure you I'm a fast learner.”

“Experience really isn't a problem for me. I'm just looking for someone to bounce off a couple of ideas once in a while, and to keep my work schedule organized. Most importantly, I need someone who won't be afraid to light a fire under my ass when I get distracted from work.”

“I think I can handle that,” I replied with more conviction than I actually felt. Nonetheless, I wasn't about to let this insane opportunity slip from my grasp. “I can do that.”

“Great. We'll start you off with 10,000 a month and see how it goes from there. I'll clue in the secretary and have her draw up the paperwork.”

“10,000 – a – a month?” I repeated, astounded.

“Yeah, we usually award raises in 3-4 months, depending on your performance. Oh, and one more thing – do you get airsick?”

“No, why?” I asked, puzzled.

“You should probably have your things packed tonight. We'll be flying to Shanghai for an urgent meeting first thing in the morning. I'll have one of the drivers swing by your place at 5:30,” Bradley instructed, nodding as he pivoted away from me, turning towards the entrance doors. “I've got a few errands I need to take care of. Look for my secretary, Diana Harmond, on the 8th floor. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter Four: Jolene

I couldn't help geeking out as I lay sprawled out on the long bed in my cubicle of the first class suite. A handsome flight attendant with John Stamos' naturally brooding eyes stopped next to me. I sat up gleefully, rubbing my hands as I gazed longingly at the snazzy medley of champagne glasses perched on his tray.

“Would you like a glass of Luxor Pure –”

“Could you leave the tray on the nightstand, please?”

Looking at me like he'd just swallowed a fly, he placed the tray on the table. Handing me a glass, he informed me, “Your lunch of filet mignon and Tagliarelle with black truffle cream sauce will be served shortly. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you so much,” I gushed at the steward. He bowed, shuffling back down the wide aisle, and slipped behind a curtain.

After marveling at the roseate flecks of gold floating in the fizzy beverage, I rose from the bed and set it back on the tray. My arms cracked with satisfying pops as I stretched them over my head. I scooted out my cubicle and wandered down the aisle towards the bathroom, deciding to wash up before they served me lunch. Pushing aside the curtain to reveal the closed door of the needlessly large bathroom, I arrived to the sound of running water coming to a halt. There was a hard click as the door unlocked.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Hastings.”

“Hey, Jolene – sorry, excuse me.”

As he attempted to edge past me in the narrow hallway, the protruding zipper of his slacks snagged onto my sleeve. Our tense laughter escalated to grunting panic as we wrestled with the fabric fruitlessly. The stubborn zipper clung onto my sleeve like a newborn baby Koala.

“Huh,” said Bradley, pulling me into the bathroom with him. The door swung shut behind me, automatically locking. “Maybe we can find something in the drawers to jimmy your sleeve off my zipper.”

“Maybe this will help.”

As I yanked my top over my head, my bun came loose. Wrapping my fallen scrunchie around my wrist, I allowed my hair to cascade past my shoulders. I bent forward, retracting drawers and rummaging through them for a set of nail-clippers or tweezers. But as I sensed the loitering stare sizzling against my flesh, I slowed my pace.

“On second thought...” he started, pulling me up to him. His warm breath, laced with a hint of bourbon, dampened against the skin of my neck. “Why don't you hold off on that till later?”

I squealed as he gripped my hair violently with his fists, flipping me around. Grabbing onto the edge of the sink for support, my neck jolted to the side as I felt the heat of his sharp tongue flicking behind my ear. I moaned, the chestnut-brown of his hair tousling in my searching grasp.

“Mr. Hastings – what are you – what are you doing?”

“Shh,” he silenced me, pressing his finger against my quivering lips.

“Sir, won't someone hear us?”

He knelt down behind me, slipping his fingers into the waistband of my black pantyhose and rolling it down my legs. Studying our reflection with crazed eyes as my heart hammered against my chest, I watched as my boss jammed the hosiery in my mouth. I wavered on the tips of my toes, feeling the meat of his crotch grinding against the slit of my ass crack through my skirt.

I breathed softly in amazement, barely feeling the presence of his agile fingers skimming down my back. Before I knew it, the cups of my baby-pink bra released its hold on my breasts, my straps slipping down my shoulders. He reached around, snatching up and squeezing the modest globe of my left breast. My skirt now rumpled around my ankles, his other hand swooped between my legs and pried my soaked cotton panties to the side.

“Whoa boy,” he uttered sexily behind me, his probing fingers pulling my pulsing cunt apart.

I slapped my hands against the mirror clumsily, my palms squeaking unpleasantly as they skidded down the reflective surface. Feeling the smooth tip of his unclothed cock rubbing against my dripping pussy, my face scrunched up in euphoric discomfiture. My eyes squeezing shut, I cuffed his wrists with my fingers. I dug my nails into his flesh, urging him to plow the whole length of his big boss dick into my waiting cunt...

My eyes snapped open, the back of my head knocking against the headrest as the floor beneath me quaked. I looked out the window to my left, the lopsided panorama of skyscrapers and glowing city lights slowly leveling. The soles of my feet rumbled with the turbulent plane as it cruised down the illuminated path of the landing strip.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Shanghai Pudong International Airport. The local time is 7:31 PM Standard China Time, and it's a chilly 10 degrees...”

“Bad dream?”

I stared blankly at Bradley Hastings, seated upright in the cubicle next to me. Licking my lips, I cloaked my blanket over my legs hurriedly. I clenched my thighs together, smothering the heat exuding from my drenched panties.

“Mm-hmm,” I managed feebly, my fingers itching to unfasten my seatbelt.

Chapter Five: Bradley

“Could you check us in? I'm gonna need to take this call.”

“Of course.”

Jolene's purple trolley bag was barely visible under the heaps of faded stickers, ranging from vintage pinup girls to a cartoon reindeer with a lit joint in its mouth. It hobbled along behind her with its bum wheel as she steered it toward the reception desk. As I started to walk toward the floral centerpiece beyond earshot, I glanced past my shoulder, stopping.

The corners of my mouth twitched at the sight of her struggling to pile her duffel bag and purse on top of her 3-wheeled trolley. Intrigued, I observed as she took out one of those circular make-up containers Tanya had hundreds of and never used. She proceeded to impressively squat in her heels, lodging the container in place of the missing wheel, and stacked up her bags on top of the trolley without another hitch. Dusting herself off, she seemed unaffected by the whispers and lengthy stares from the other patrons. Instead, she waved at them brightly before turning to speak to the receptionist.

“Son of a bitch...what now?” I muttered under my breath, stepping next to the stupendous centerpiece to check my phone. My phone ceased its vibrating in the palm of my hand, shifting to the home screen.

16 Missed Calls. 3 Voice Mail Messages. 28 Unread Text Messages.

Are you kidding me, Tanya?

A nauseating rush of sudden comprehension began pressing inside of me. Tanya must have been well-acquainted with this sense of irritated disgust when she was screening my calls. Frankly, my blood pressure still goes haywire when I wonder whose dick she was sucking when Uncle Leroy was fighting for his life in the ER after that trucker who fell asleep at the wheel collided with his Sedan. In hindsight, it didn't matter if it was that good-looking Armenian backup dancer who went on every tour with her, or that beefcake Jesus-looking motherfucker who insisted “Naked Yoga” was the “in thing” last summer. Would it have been satisfying to reward these shitheads with a California Smile? Maybe. But if lying was a legitimate profession, Tanya would have been the top-ranking expert of her field. After all, this was the same woman who had her make-up artist paint her face with bruises so she could brand me a wife-beater to gain sympathy from the public. That of course, fell flat when authorities accidentally smeared off the “welt” on her back. And that fist-sized hole through our patio door last summer she tried to pass off as a failed break-in attempt? That was all her, resulting from when I'd refused to grant her access to 3 million she wanted to blow with her girlfriends at Atlantic City. Who knows what bullshit she could have fed to those poor, horny bastards?

I scrolled through the roller coaster of text messages. They started off as cheesy apologies, most of which were dumbass lyrics pulled straight from her songs. Somehow believing she still had any jurisdiction over me in any way, shape, or form, she demanded to know my whereabouts and whether or not I had some new “slut bag” with me. Against my better judgment, I pulled up my voicemail inbox, sighing as I pressed my phone to my ear.

“Bradley honey? Where are you? Are you still mad at me for breaking your little spaceship toy? Don't be like that, I'll get you a new one! I miss you so much darling. Please call me back? I need to hear your voice.”

I punched the pound sign on my screen to hear the next message, which was recorded just an hour later. Startled, my phone nearly jumped out of my hand at the screeching erupting from the receiver.

“Just who the fuck do you think you are? Are you really trying to avoid my calls? I'm on 10 different magazine covers every month. Women would kill to be me! Do you have any idea how lucky you –”

My eyebrows arching like I'd just seen a ghost, I deleted all the messages and slipped my phone back into my pocket.

“Wow...this place is Downton-Abbey fancy. You know I'd be perfectly happy if the company just booked me a room in one of those backpacker hostels for 30 bucks a night. Not that I didn't appreciate flying first-class. That was an...experience.”

I looked up from my menu at Jolene across the table. She sat on the edge of her seat with her rigid body spaced a good foot-and-a-half from the back of her chair. As she browsed through her menu, she tapped her chin, mouthing each item silently to herself. Her blue eyes looked almost eerily transparent against the dim candlelight between us. I slanted my head to the side, noting the lack of black around her eyes and her faintly spotty complexion, much paler than she'd been at the office. Her nude lips seemed to be smiling even when she wasn't.

“Don't worry about it. Order anything you want and we'll head back to our rooms later to unwind for the night. I need to run through a couple of things on our proposal for the meeting tomorrow. JinHai Production Company stands to be one of our biggest clients – we're gonna have to reel them in before any of our competitors can.”

“I've already booked us an Uber-English ride to the meeting tomorrow at 10AM. I looked up the route to JinHai Headquarters, and it looks like ShenJiang South Road's a sucker for early-morning traffic, so I've scheduled the pick-up at 8:30.”

“Sounds good. You sure you haven't done this before?”

“Well, I –”

“Good evening Sir, Madam. Are we ready to order?”

“Ah, yes. I'll just have the seafood platter and a glass of whatever white wine you have available,” I said to the server as I pushed back my seat. I removed a flattened box of Lucky Strikes from inside my coat and and hung it on the back of my chair, excusing myself. “I'll be right back.”

Edging past the tables, I made my way towards the back of the restaurant. I pushed the doors open to the open-aired balcony, my face greeted with the dark, toxic fogs of nicotine. I walked to an empty spot next to a stone ashtray. I pushed a lit cigarette into my mouth and let it dangle over my lip, placing my hands over the railing overlooking the gorgeous skyline. Mechanically tapping my cigarette over the basin littered with butts, my wandering eyes settled on the twisting glass structure of the Shanghai Tower, dwarfing the rest of its companions. I cracked a smile. Henry would've loved that.

Ever since he was 4, he took a liking to my old Lego blocks. 10 at the time, I gladly parted with my baby toys and moved onto biking down steep hills with my buddies and raising hell with my Talkboy. Playing with my Legos, however, Henry developed an obsession with buildings and unconventional architecture. Mom and Dad would find the walls to our shared bedroom covered with crayon drawings of full cities, which were in all honesty, pretty damn skilled for a 4-year-old. As Henry got older, he'd start branching out his interests to science fiction and coding. Still, if you ventured into his room today, you'd find an immaculate shrine of his favorite structures made out of meticulously glued Lego pieces.

I always knew he was different from my buddies' younger brothers. Don't get me wrong, Henry used to frustrate the shit out of me. He still does, occasionally. But ask every single asshole who tried to push him around when we were kids – these were the same dickweeds I spent a good time of my childhood relentlessly pounding. As downright bizarre his behavior was sometimes, he was always gonna be my little brother. Mom and Dad were hopelessly in denial, and never had him properly diagnosed. I chalked it up to some sort of anti-personality disorder, but then again, I'm no doctor. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. I had more than enough resources to ensure that he'd be taken care of for the rest of his life. And though he mostly kept to himself, Henry was doing great at work. I even caught him browsing a Dungeons & Dragons forums on his laptop one time. The steps were infantile, but it was progress all the same. He was gonna be alright.