by K. Bromberg
I shrug flippantly. “Have you ever known me to lose at anything? They may be my girls, but I will not be the first to chicken out.”
“This isn’t a joke, Stevie.”
“Clearly, considering you’re always so damn serious,” I say mocking his tone.
“I know you’re struggling with your father’s death and—”
“You don’t have a clue what I’m—”
“But it’s like you’re trying to throw away everything you’ve worked for. Everything he helped and guided you to be. You were in peak condition and now it’s as if you’re purposefully poisoning your body with all this crap so you have an excuse when you fail.” He takes a step closer so that his shadow covers my face, just in case my eyes were closed because the sun was too much when looking at him.
Nope. Not the reason.
More like I don’t want to be lectured.
“I turned pro at age fifteen and have been going nonstop for almost ten years, Car. I’ve worked—”
“Exactly, and since your dad passed, you’ve acted like life’s one never-ending party.”
Another roar goes up from the party crowd and it’s the distraction I need to shove his words away and pretend I didn’t hear him.
Like I needed to be reminded that he’s dead.
Because it’s not as if every time I step on the court, I don’t hear his voice and turn to look for him to be reminded he’s not there. Or every knock on my hotel room door doesn’t have my heart lurching into my throat, expecting him to be mad I’m running late for my conditioning.
Every second of every day I’m reminded. He may have been a tyrant but he was also my anchor, and now, I feel like I’m adrift at sea. That is not struggling with my father’s death. That’s called drowning in it.
I lift a drink from the table beside me and suck on the straw until slurping sounds let me know I’ve hit the bottom of the glass. I suck one more time to make the sound on purpose.
Shit. I need another and I definitely can’t with Killjoy Carson standing with his hands on his hips and his judgment front and center.
“Can you at least move to the left, Car? There’s a hot guy over there who you’re blocking, and I want a direct line of sight.”
“Christ,” he mutters but shifts out of the way to earn the smirk I give him. His sigh weighs down the lighthearted atmosphere I’m trying to enjoy. “You’ve left me no choice, kid.”
I’m not your kid.
But I don’t respond. I don’t even acknowledge that he’s spoken. It’s so much easier to fixate on all the people partying, feeling good, living a life I don’t understand but have been trying to lose myself in for a while.
“You will be in my suite tomorrow morning at ten a.m. prompt.”
I don’t respond.
“Stevie.” My name is a frustrated, patriarchal sigh.
“Ten?” I groan despite a part of me feeling surprised at this demanding side of Carson. “That’s so early when the girls and I have Cards O’ Fun to finish tonight.” I sigh heavily and look at my nails as if I’m checking my manicure.
“Failure to do so will result in me pulling you out of the US Open and losing two major sponsors. You’re in no way prepared, and I refuse to allow you to show up and make an ass out of yourself.”
The US Open. My dad’s favorite tournament. The place where, as a little girl, I sat on his knee, listening as he told me how it would be when I stepped foot on the court someday.
And then the next day, he’d take me on our practice court and run drills until I thought my arms and legs would fall off.
I don’t let a single emotion flicker over my face, although I feel like every single one runs through me.
“I’m not prepared?” I snort. “I have two and a half months. Get over yourself and your power trip.”
His smile reveals a flicker of disdain. “If my promises to your father meant nothing to me then I’d let you stay on this path you’re on. I might even take pleasure when you fall on your ass in front of the world while on center court. But those promises meant something to me, Stevie. They truly did.”
I avert my eyes and try to blink away the tears that threaten. It would be easier if I fired Carson. If I told him he was an old man who didn’t understand me or how things worked now, but I’d be lying. I’d know deep down that my dad would have picked him because he knew his shit and would protect me.
And maybe I resent Carson for that. That he knew about my dad being sick when I didn’t.
“Stevie?” he asks, impatience weighing down his voice.
“I’ll see what I can do about it. You can’t expect a girl to change her plans on such short notice.”
His chuckle holds anything but amusement in it.
Maybe I’ve pushed him too far. Maybe I haven’t.
Question is, how much do I care? I bite my bottom lip and stare past him and his well-meaning pep talk to let him know he’s dismissed.
“Have your last bit of fun tonight. Get drunk, fuck who you want, toy with who you don’t, get whatever the hell you need to out of your system—”
“Wow, such language. Anyone listening would think you’re mad at me or something.” I bat my eyelashes, even though he can’t see them behind my darkened shades.
He takes another step toward me, leans over, and lowers his voice when he speaks. “Have your last night of Cards O’ Fun, Lancaster, but try to be discreet, will you? There’s already way too much press, too much damage to your image, and I’m the one who has to try and repair it.”
“No one gave you that job,” I say like the petulant child I know I’m being.
“Your father did.” The words hang in the air like lead. “He entrusted it to me and you damn well better know that I plan on keeping my promise to him.”
My stomach twists in knots and my heart races at the mere mention of him. “Great. My condolences on having the job no one wants.” I motion for him to get out of the way but he doesn’t move. “If you’re going to stand there, you could at least be useful and get me another drink or two.”
“Ten o’clock, Stevie.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, giving him a salute before motioning to the waitress circling the VIP section for another drink without so much as a look Carson’s way.
He clears his throat, the weight of his stare pinning me motionless. “He’d be disappointed in this. In you.”
Each word feels like a battering ram to my solar plexus. A direct hit of guilt and pain and hurt.
The problem is, those are the things fueling me, driving me, pushing me to act this way.
Carson meant to correct me with those words and he has no clue he just poured gasoline on a smoldering fire. Because my dad—my purpose, the only one I ever tried to please—is gone.
And nothing—not winning, partying, practicing, nor trying—will ever bring him back.
STEVIE
“I NEED SOME EXCITEMENT,” I say as I set down my empty drink on the space next to the vacant slot machine.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock is ticking on my freedom.
I’m not naïve to what Carson has in mind for me. Some prissy PR executive to stalk in tomorrow morning—maybe it’s today because I have no idea what time it is—in her high heels and too-perfect hair and tell me exactly how we need to reimagine and repackage my image.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Back to pristine white tennis skirts and walking the fucking tightrope I’ve lived all twenty-four of my years on so far.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“It’s my last night of freedom for a while,” I groan to Vivi, my number one enabler who is standing beside me surveying the lay of the land. She and Jordan flew out here five days ago at my request, knowing that without my dad, I’ve felt so untethered. Alone.
And since then, we’ve been living our best life. Something that is completely outside the norm for me and my typical seven-day training, clean-eating, and no-alcohol regime.
“And?” J
ordan says, a mischievous smile sliding on her red-painted lips. “If it’s your last night of freedom, then I guess we better get moving.” Her laugh rings out above the electronic noises of the machines surrounding us.
“You’ve got your wig on,” Vivi says as she motions to my dark brown wig that shocked the shit out of me when I saw my reflection in the mirror. It was so real looking I did a double take—me, but so very different looking. “So you’re covered from the media catching wind of any trouble we willingly get in.”
My grin widens. The feeling of freedom is still so new and liberating that it’s like a high for me. “The question is, what trouble might that be?” I laugh and then close my eyes for a beat, allowing the alcohol blitz to make the room spin a bit before meeting the expectant gazes of my closest friends.
“We’ve danced. We’ve drank,” Jordan says. “We’ve flirted our asses off and kissed our share of hot men—”
“Jordan and I have completed our two Cards O’ Fun for the night. You’ve only done one so far,” Vivi says as she holds up the last sealed envelope by her two fingers, a more than coy smile on her lips. “It’s time for you to pick your last one, Stevie . . . unless of course, you’re not brave enough to do it?”
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like this?” I say as I look from Vivi to Jordan and then back again.
“Are you accusing moi of rigging Cards O’ Fun?” Vivi asks in a way that makes me know she definitely has.
“Give it to me,” I say, snatching the envelope from her hand and tearing it open to find out what awaits me. I unfold the piece of paper inside and read the words written there: have a one-night stand.
I stare at the dare on the piece of paper and don’t say a word as I try to process it. Not so much process it but rather consider how I get the nerve up to do it since I don’t exactly have ample experience like they do.
Being a wild child is one thing—that I can handle. Sleeping with some random stranger is a different realm for me.
But I can’t deny the hum that’s just beneath the surface from the idea. The thrill of doing something that is normal and typical of anyone my age.
Jordan nudges me. “If you’re hell-bent on sowing your wild oats, Stevie, then the number one way to own that is to have a reckless one-night stand.”
“And you conveniently planned for this card to be pulled on my last night of freedom, didn’t you?”
Vivi’s shrug is less than apologetic. Her smile even more so. “C’mon, girlfriend. You’ve missed out on so many normal things in life that the rest of us have lived. All we want is for you to have lived a little too.”
Wasn’t that what I’d griped at them about a few weeks ago? That I felt so young compared to them. That despite having traveled the world many times over and experienced things that most people would kill for, I still have missed out on so many rites of passage.
“C’mon, Steves,” Jordan says in her sweetest voice. “You know the idea is exciting. A hot guy. Unapologetic sex. No strings attached. And after, you simply walk away. Besides, with this get-up,” she says tugging on my dark brown wig, “no one will know it’s you.”
I stare at her, my bravado uncertain about what side it wants to stand on—in or out. I can count on two hands the number of men/boys I’ve kissed. I can count on less than one hand the number of men I’ve slept with.
It’s always been about tennis. Always been my father stepping in when things got too serious to point out whoever I was with was not good enough or that he was with me for the wrong reasons.
Handcuffed.
My personal life has been like this for so long. Controlled. Managed.
Does the idea make me nervous as hell? Of course, it does. And yet I’ve heard stories from Vivi and Jordan about how exhilarating it is. How rebellious and thrilling it is to sleep with someone when you might not even know their real name.
“So . . .” Vivi asks.
. . . unless of course, you’re not brave enough to do it . . .
“Fine. Yes. I’ll do it.” My shaky inhale doesn’t reflect the resolve my words are spoken with, but I nod to emphasize it. It doesn’t matter though, because it’s drowned out by their squeals that are a mixture of both excitement and victory.
“Now it’s time you pick some unsuspecting man to fuck,” Vivi completes for her.
“Vivi!” I shriek and bat at her arm as a lascivious smile slides on my lips, and my body suddenly hums for a release I didn’t realize I needed.
“What?” She shrugs unabashedly. “We are in the City of Sin so get ready to sin. You look hot and like a woman about to do something she’s never done before. Besides, you’ll have something to reminisce about while you’re back in your own personal hell doing drill after drill after drill on the court.”
“She has a point,” Jordan adds.
“If this is truly your last night of fun before Killjoy Carson takes hold like you think, then we think you need to go out with a bang.”
“Literally.” Jordan laughs and then stands on her tiptoes as she begins scouring the floor around us.
“It’s the last card.” Vivi plucks the card from my hands. “And we agreed we’d accomplish every last item before No Fun Carson steals you back from us.”
Fear snakes up my spine. The sex part is fine. It’s the some random guy part that stresses me out.
“You’re thinking too much,” Jordan says.
“But—”
“There are no buts unless the one we’re talking about is the one you’ll be tapping tonight.” Vivi taps her fingernails against her glass. “Now the question is, whose will it be?”
“We need someone a bit older. A man who’s old enough to know what he’s doing but not so old that he can’t get it up,” Jordan says.
“Jesus.” I choke on the drink the cocktail waitress just handed me.
“She’s right though,” Jordan says and then grunts and stills when she sees someone across the way. “You only get tonight so we need to make sure he’s worth the time. What about him?”
We all look toward the blackjack pit where a man is buttoning up his suit jacket. He’s tall with dark skin, a killer smile, and an air about him that screams swagger and sex appeal.
Can’t say I’d mind that.
But my hopes are dashed before they can really get started when a woman walks up and plants a kiss on his lips.
We all groan and then start our search anew. Mr. One-night Only has to be here somewhere. No complications. Great sex. I mean, I can hope that’s the case—for my sake at least.
Although, I guess that’s not necessarily required to finish the game.
STEVIE
IT’S SLOW GOING, BUT WE make up for it by drinking more alcohol and moving locations. A nightclub. Another bar. Jumping on the go-go dancers’ platforms and dancing there until we were asked to leave.
The night wears thin, the alcohol buzzes through our veins, and the prospects for my very picky self, seem even thinner.
Normally I’d be thrilled to have an out on this dare . . . but if it means losing to them, not a chance in hell.
“You’d think of all the cities in the world that this would be the one where we’d have the best luck, but . . .” Vivi’s words fade off and then her low, rich hum is a taunt all in itself, begging us to turn and look to where her attention is focused.
Yes.
That’s the first thought that comes to mind when I lay my eyes on the man who just entered the bar area.
He’s tall with dark hair and broad shoulders. He wears an expensive dress shirt that’s unbuttoned at the collar with his shirtsleeves rolled up to showcase taut forearms and what looks to be a Rolex.
He’s a man who knows he looks good and owns it. A man who commands attention when he walks into a room and he definitely has mine.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Jordan murmurs around her straw.
He nonchalantly surveys the room as if he’s looking to see if there’s anyone worthy of his ti
me.
Apparently, I am because when he looks in our direction, his eyes find and then remain on mine. I don’t flinch, don’t look away. My expression doesn’t even reflect the thrill that shoots through me because the man who caught my eye might be interested in me as well.
Our gazes hold. His eyes narrow as he unabashedly takes me in, assesses, approves. Then when I assume he likes what he sees, a ghost of a smile—arrogance and sex appeal, a man who knows he’s good-looking—is offered.
It’s embarrassing that his smirk alone has me wanting him.
Embarrassing but it’s true.
“Your move, Stevie,” Vivi murmurs.
My move.
With a deep breath, I push away from the bar and stride across the room—maybe with a little extra swing to my hips—to approach him.
I’m too buzzed to give the ramifications of my actions too much thought. Too lost in the challenge, and reclaiming some of my independence, to think of all the things my dad had drilled into my head that would have scared me off doing something like this before. The what if he’s crazy? The what if he’s a plant to get an exclusive on me? The what if he’s a serial killer?
But isn’t that why I’m here? Why I’m even doing this—besides of course what I like about him—to block out everything that’s just too much. Responsibility. Duty. Grief. Simply being Stevie Lancaster and all the trappings that come with her.
“Hi,” I breathe, unable to take my eyes off him. He’s even more gorgeous up close.
“Hello yourself,” he murmurs as he leans an elbow against a table and makes no qualms about taking everything about me in. His hazel eyes framed by thick lashes run the length of my body and when they come back up to meet my eyes, that effortless smile is an aphrodisiac all itself.
“I’m Scarlett,” I say and hold a hand out to him, refusing to break his stare.
“Scarlett whose name isn’t really Scarlett,” he says and shakes my hand. “It’s a most unexpected pleasure to meet you. I’m Rhett.”
“Rhett, huh?” My lips quirk into a smile. A man who knows classic movies and knows how to play this game. Unexpected but more than welcome. My hand remains in his longer than it should, and I can’t say that I mind. “Nice to meet you too.”
