Sex Therapy

by Jillian Quinn

  The girl next to me removes her hand from her face, and I slide off the bed, holding on to the table next to me for support.

  “Thanks, Mick,” I say, somewhat panicked. “I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Hi,” the girl says in a playful tone.

  She looks about as old as she sounds, which isn’t very comforting, though I can see why I took her to bed. She has legs for days and perky tits.

  “What’s the rush, Alex?” She pushes her blonde strands behind her ear and bites down on her bottom lip.

  I’m standing naked in front of this girl, contemplating whether I want to make use of those nice full lips, until she says, “We have time. My roommate won’t be home until later.”

  That’s when I look at the other side of the room and see the same twin-size bed with a computer desk and chest of drawers, confirming I am in a dorm room.

  Fuck!

  I start to look for my clothes as I say to the girl, “How old are you?” I hold my breath, hoping that she’s not jailbait. The last thing I need is another scandal.

  “I’ll be nineteen in a few weeks, remember? You told me last night that you would come to my birthday party and bring some of your teammates.”

  I have to stop drinking.

  I shake my head, relieved that she’s legal. “Sorry, but that’s not going to happen. I won’t be here in a few weeks. This was a mistake. Forget that I was ever here.”

  I find my fitted gray shirt on the floor in front of her computer desk along with my boxer briefs, jeans, and sneakers. After dressing faster than I thought possible, I fix my shaggy brown hair, looking in the mirror next to her closet, and reach for the entrance door, about to escape this disaster, when something soft hits me on the back of the head. A pillow falls on the floor next to my shoe. When I look over my shoulder, the naked girl is holding up both of her middle fingers.

  “Go to hell, Alex! Get the fuck out of my room!”

  “Don’t need to tell me twice,” I mumble as I open the door with a wave in her direction before closing it behind me.

  I feel a bit of relief until it hits me that I’m on a college campus, and I’m standing in a crowded hallway full of young girls. Based on their surprised looks, some of them know who I am. This is an all-time low.

  Disgusted with myself, I keep my eyes pointed toward the floor until I get outside, avoiding the stares from those around me. I sift through the throng, all while dodging young girls who want me and boys who are whispering my name. Some of them have their cell phones aimed in my direction.

  This is just my luck.

  “Is that Alex Parker?” a boy says, his finger pointing at me as I walk past.

  “Can’t be,” says another boy.

  “I heard he fucked Jason’s girlfriend.”

  “I heard he fucked this chick in my Bio class.”

  Bad news travels fast.

  At twenty-seven years old, I never thought I’d be doing the walk of shame out of a college dormitory. I also never thought I would destroy my career with a one-night stand in an elevator.

  Once I make it through the herd, I glance up at the six-story building, my hand pressing to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sunlight.

  Where am I?

  The amount of students flowing in and out of the place, some of them staring at me with curiosity, makes me want to bolt off this fucking campus. But my head and body are throbbing in unison, and whatever strength I might’ve had today was probably spent on the girl I just ditched.

  I take a seat on a ledge to my right, blocking the sun from my face, as I pull my phone from my pocket. Using the GPS on my phone, I zoom in to get a better look at the streets and realize I am at Georgetown University. At least I know where I am. The who and the why are the parts of last night I am missing.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  I tap my location and details into the Uber app and wait, praying they will be on time.

  A large group—six boys and seven girls, all varying heights, skin tones, and builds—stops when one boy with spiked blond hair comes to a halt about twenty feet from me and points in my direction.

  He slaps the husky dark-haired guy next to him on the arm. “Holy shit, man, look.” His voice is so loud, it carries through the air.

  His friend’s eyes flicker with acknowledgment, a wide grin forming. They stroll toward me, the clear leaders of their group, judging by the way the rest of them follow behind.

  I could walk away, but what difference would that make? It’s not like I don’t have fans coming up to me for autographs all the time. And I’m not one of those asshole players who refuses to give them out. But I can’t let them know why I’m here.

  How the hell do I explain this? Uh, I was just boning some chick who lives here. Didn’t catch her name. The papers would love that.

  Flanked by his companions and looking like a complete douche, the blond fixes his collared pastel shirt and tilts his head up at me in some lame attempt to look cool. “You Alex Parker?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “I thought so,” he says, pleased. “You’ve been all over the news today. Everyone on campus has been talking about you.”

  “Yeah, I got traded to Philly.”

  His interrogation annoys me. Just ask me to sign something already and move on.

  I stand when I see the car pulling up to the curb behind them. The blond opens his mouth wide enough to catch flies. He’s at least six inches shorter than me, and he must weigh about eighty pounds less, except I’m solid muscle and he’s nothing but a sack of bones. A few of the girls giggle and flash bright smiles, their lips parting as I wink at them.

  He laughs as he pushes his cell phone in front of me and then hits the play button. “Nah, that’s not what everyone is talking about.”

  I glance down at the screen, shocked by the video of me carrying two half-naked girls over my shoulders and into the dormitory. “Shit,” I mutter.

  In the video, it’s dark outside, but there’s enough light from the exterior of the building to see all our faces perfectly. Neither of them is the same girl I woke up next to. One has long auburn hair and killer curves, and the other is a smoking-hot chick with short dark hair and huge tits.

  What. The. Fuck?

  This must’ve been all the team owner needed to make his decision about the trade. He had already been adamant about getting rid of me after his granddaughter, who’d lied about her age, went blabbing her mouth, and this footage probably sent him over the edge.

  “You’re my hero, bro,” the husky boy says. “How many chicks did you bag last night? Seriously, teach me your ways. I’m a fast learner.”

  I don’t remember the girls or how I ended up here. Was I drugged?

  That’s doubtful but not completely off base. Some chicks will do anything to become a famous athlete’s baby mama. I must’ve blacked out. That happens a lot—more times than I care to admit.

  I smirk and ignore his question. “My ride is here. Gotta go.”

  Sidestepping around them, I inch my way through the crowd and hop into the car, thankful it showed up on time. A few more minutes with those guys, and I would’ve had to deal with the grand inquisition about last night. I give the driver my address, and he sets off toward the apartment I share with my former teammates—former being the operative word as of twenty minutes ago.

  My phone rings, the sound of a hockey goal horn filling the silent air in the car. The driver jumps at the intrusion and presses his hand to his chest. It’s an abrupt ringtone, but it does the job when I’m too shit-faced or in a drunken coma and need to be woken up. I already knew this call was coming, and when I see that it’s my publicist, Rebecca Stone, I have to answer.

  “Hey, sweetheart. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Pleasure?” she screams. “No, this is not a fucking pleasure, Alex! What is wrong with you?” A beat passes between us, and then she continues, “Have you seen YouTube yet? Better yet, have you seen the
news? They’re calling this one Puck of Shame. You really dug yourself a grave this time. I’m done. I can’t help you anymore. You’re—”

  I interrupt, trying to keep my cool as she lays into me, “What do you mean, you’re done? You’re done when I say you’re done. You work for me.”

  Rebecca laughs, and it’s a cackle that reminds me of the Wicked Witch. “I work for you because you pay me, you little prick. You need to find yourself a new publicist. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She groans and slams something down that makes a crashing sound. “I’m over here, breaking out in stress hives from you and this bullshit you pulled at that campus. Of all the schools, you had to pick one as prestigious as Georgetown? You’re lucky the dean wants this to go away as much as the rest of us. After this, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “Yes, there is. You can do your job, Becs.”

  “I want triple my normal fee. No one will touch you with a ten-foot pole. You’re a PR nightmare!”

  There’s no sense in denying the truth. I’ve been driving her crazy for the past year. On one occasion, I even tried to seduce Rebecca to keep her on my team, thinking that a cougar like her wouldn’t turn down a young hockey star. That plan backfired and was more embarrassing for me than it was for her.

  “Fine,” I agree. “Whatever you want.”

  “You need to get some help, Alex. I’m telling you this as a friend and not as your publicist. I know you haven’t taken your father’s death well, and I don’t blame you, but you need to clean up your act. Even with my connections, there’s only so much I can do for you. At some point, you’re going to have to help yourself.”

  “Thanks, Becs.” I pause and hold the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID, showing an incoming call from DMG—Donoghue Media Group, the company Mickey founded after college. What now? “Look, I gotta go. Mickey’s on the other line. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one,” she says before ending the call.

  If there’s one thing she’s right about, it’s that I need to get back on track. A midseason trade to Philadelphia should be a wake-up call. Instead, it’s making me want a drink.

  PARKER is available now!

  Read PARKER for FREE with Kindle Unlimited.

  KANE

  If you liked Parker, keep reading for a free excerpt of Kane, the second book in the Face-Off series.

  Kane is available now!

  Read KANE for FREE with Kindle Unlimited.

  As the captain of the Philadelphia Flyers, Tyler Kane has an ego the size of his hockey stick. He’s hot as puck, outscores all the centers in the league, and can get any girl he wants. Except the girl he wants is off-limits, a constant reminder of the bad decisions he made in the past. Until he meets Kennedy Lockwood, a feisty sports reporter that challenges Tyler and forces him out of his comfort zone.

  He should leave her alone and spare her the drama that comes with his life outside the rink. But she insists there’s more to his story, wants to crack the ice around his heart and expose his secrets in the process. When Tyler agrees to an exclusive interview with Kennedy, he had every intention for it to end with smoking hot sex.

  But he didn’t realize the sexy blonde who writes about hockey players and their big sticks would be the one to hit him the hardest.

  KANE EXCERPT

  CHAPTER ONE

  KENNEDY

  Everyone has a ritual. Today was no different from yesterday or any day before that, apart from the interview I had with the Capitals. For a no name sports reporter like me, that was a huge score, a chance to help build my paper into a more reputable source for sports news.

  After a long drive back from DC to Philly, I walk through the door and throw my messenger bag onto the dining room table. Per the usual, I unhook my bra next and fling it onto the couch. My girls hate boob jail, and it has been a long ass day.

  Feeling free, I head into the kitchen of the one bedroom apartment I moved into last month. The paint on the cabinets is cracked and peeling. And if you look close enough at the floor, the linoleum tiles are coming loose. I found the place on Craig’s List. It was one of those looks better in the picture type of deals. Everything seemed fine at first. Until I unpacked, and then the appliances and fixtures started showing their age.

  The only thing that works right is the coffee maker. And that’s because I brought it with me from home. Everything else is on its last leg or unsalvageable. Even the hot water lasts for about two minutes before it turns ice cold, leaving me screaming out in pain.

  After I add the filter and grounds to the coffee maker, I hit a few buttons until it starts brewing. Then, I walk into my bedroom to change into a pink tank top and boy shorts. I live alone, the cramped space just enough room to house my stuff.

  While I grew up in a huge house, I prefer the comfort this small apartment provides me, but I wish it were in a better neighborhood. My dad would kill me if he knew I was living in this building or on this side of the city. I lie to my father and tell him I live in Center City, up in a high-rise building I cannot afford just so I can avoid the same conversation we have every week. Crooks squandered our family fortune, and my dad had a hand in that. Now, I am stuck living in this dumpy apartment, living off leftover takeout and coffee.

  I stir cream and two sugars into my mug and head straight to my desk. My dining room doubles as a makeshift office with little space away from the living room. In an apartment this size, the rooms bleed into the other. There’s no difference between them other than the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling and over my dining room table.

  I have a view of the street through the window in front of me though I’m not so sure it’s the kind of view anyone would want. Even in the darkness, the street is depressing, rundown and full of dilapidated rowhouses.

  After I settle into my chair, I call my best friend, Sydney Carroway. My daily habits always remain the same and calling Sydney as I sit down to work is one of them.

  I punch the speed dial on my keypad, and Sydney answers on the first ring.

  “I need another word for cock,” Sydney says into the receiver, her tone serious.

  What may appear to someone on the outside as one of the weirdest conversations of their life is in fact just an average day with my best friend.

  I chuckle and switch my cell phone to my left ear, attempting to open my beat up Macbook to type up my notes from the interview. “You’re such a perv, Syd…but a lovable one.”

  “Don’t laugh.” Her voice squeaks on the other end of the line. “It’s for research purposes.”

  “Writing smut,” I deadpan.

  “Hey, that smut pays the bills, baby!”

  Sydney is a romance author and my co-blogger at Long Sticks and Hard Shots, the sport- themed sex advice blog we write together. I talk about my experiences with professional hockey players and love of their sticks. Sydney uses her way with words and obsession with sex to make our readers swoon.

  Bizarre conversations are par for the course. After all, she writes romance for a living and has her brain conditioned to write sex all day. Conversations that are sexual in nature are expected and often welcomed when it comes to Sydney. She has a way of talking about topics that would make most people uncomfortable. Somehow, she finds a way to get our readers to open up and interact.

  “Maybe you should poll our followers to see how many words for cock they can come up with. I don’t have the time to sit here and ramble off all the naughty words your skanky brain wants to hear. Some people have to work for a living.”

  “I might have to reevaluate our friendship,” she jokes, breathing hard into the phone. “What happened to ovaries before brovaries? We’re a team, and those hockey dudes can wait.”

  I roll my eyes, a smirk forming. “I work with more than hockey players. I just happen to prefer the sport best.” Knowing she will never let me get off the phone without answering her question, I sit back in my chair and stop typing for a second. “Fine. I’ll start yo
u off, but then I have to get back to work. Unlike you, it takes me more than twenty minutes to write a good story.”

  “I’ll have you know that it takes me more than twenty minutes to write a story. I pour my heart and soul into those raunchy taboo novels.”

  “True.” I take a sip from the oversized coffee mug that says I’m Smutty and I Know It. This is one of the many strange gifts Sydney has given to me over the years. It even has a pink lipstick smudge through the center of the mug. “But just because I’m the owner doesn’t mean I can take the day off, now does it? I’m barely keeping this paper afloat after everything that has happened with my father’s company.”

  “Yeah, babe, sorry about all that. I’m sure things will turn around for you soon. You just need to get your foot in the door with the right people.”

  “Easy for you to say. You write a book, and it sells ten thousand copies in one week.”

  She laughs. “What can I say? Sex sells. I have to give my readers what they want.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall in front of me, one of the few things that work in this place other than the coffee pot. “I need to make this deadline, so maybe we can talk about cocks later.”

  She huffs, pretending to be annoyed, a tactic she uses every time I want to get off the phone, and she still wants to chat my ear off. “You own Sports Buzz. It’s not like you have to kill yourself to make it to print, and besides, it’s an online newspaper.”

  “I’m the owner, but my bank account says otherwise.” That much is true. If I don’t land a few more interviews for the month, I will have to tap into what’s left of my savings. I haven’t made a cent from the paper, still hanging on by a thread.

  The call waiting beeps in my ear. I glance down and see a local 215 area code, unsure if I want to pickup at this hour. But what if it’s work related. I cannot afford to pass on a story.