by C. L. Parker
“Just trying to make sure none of your STDs or creepy crawlies find their way past the defensive mechanisms I put into place this morning to keep them out.” I had to smile at that; it was a nice save on my part. Witty, too.
Shaw failed to see the humor in it. I failed to care. And into the car I went. I almost laughed out loud when he got in behind me and slammed the door, but then he tapped on the divider to signal the driver—only for me, it signaled something completely different. Realization.
I was alone in the back of a car with the man from my very wet dream.
Jeez, it was crowded in the confined space. But it smelled good. Like Shaw. “Dammit!” I muttered with a shake of my head, hoping to clear it.
“Did you say something?”
“Nope.” I wondered if he was as well endowed in real life as he had been in my dream.
Stop it, Cassidy Rose!
“So, I was thinking about the reasoning behind Wade sending both of us to meet with Rockford at the same time instead of individually.”
Thank God one of us was able to think straight, though I had to admit I was shocked to high heavens that it was the pretty boy instead of me. “Is that right? And what did your simple mind come up with?” I asked as I pulled my laptop out of my messenger bag.
“Simple.” Shaw chuckled in that smart-ass sort of way. “You’re so funny. Seriously, I think he wants us to double-team the guy. You know, to make sure he signs with SSE.”
Where had I heard that before? “Wade is aware that I work alone. And everyone in the universe knows you’re a selfish prick, so I doubt very much that he intended for us to work together. Teamwork does not a superstar athlete land.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, then why do you think he sent us both?”
“The answer is as obvious as the shit on the tip of your nose, Matthews.” I stopped. Not for dramatic pause or because I didn’t have the follow-up but because I was experiencing one of the most intense feelings of “been there, done that” ever. This entire conversation had happened before.
“Well? What is it?”
I looked at Shaw. Then down at his crotch. Then at his hands, one of which was attached to the arm he had draped over the back of the seat and the other appropriately placed on his own thigh and not stroking his cock. That was it. This was the conversation that had started it all in my dream. Was I a freaking psychic? Had a lightning bolt struck me while I slept? Because, hello? What were the odds?
The way I figured it, I had two choices: I could either continue the natural progression of the conversation and see if magic really did exist, or I could take a detour and avoid making the worst mistake of my life.
Shaw dipped his head so that I’d have to look at him and that stupid way his brows were lifted, like he was waiting for me to come up with an answer. And even though I wanted to whimper when his tongue made a completely normal sweep of his bottom lip to moisten it, I knew what had to be done. “Figure it out on your own.”
Anticlimactic and disappointing, judging by his expression. He’d deploy countermeasures in three, two, one …
“Pfft. Was that the best you could come up with?” Count on Shaw to gloat and try to make me feel stupid.
Maybe he had a point. Maybe the asinine thoughts I’d been having, including the dream, were my brain’s way of telling me it needed a break, that it was dumbing down for the sake of self-preservation. Forty-three national league clients, including Olympic athletes, each wanting a bigger slice of the pie, one-on-one attention, and high-paying endorsements could take a toll on a person. I was overworked. That was all. But there was no rest for the clinically insane, and if I wanted that partnership, I had to give it my all.
And just like that, I was over it. To think I’d been avoiding him all day, when I should’ve done the exact opposite. The real Shaw was nowhere near as dreamy as my mind had tried to trick me into believing. He was an egotistical jerk served up on a cold platter with a heaping helping of sarcasm on the side. He needed only to open his mouth for the remnants of the fire that had been smoldering in my nether regions to be completely doused. If all else failed, I could certainly depend on his grating personality to snap me back to reality.
I ignored Shaw’s question and sat back with my laptop, refusing to engage him any further for the remainder of the ride. He pouted like a teenage girl, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Game face, on.
CHAPTER 4
Shaw
Denver Rockford loved to be seen, and at six foot four and 235 pounds of come-get-you-some, he was hard to miss. Especially when he was center stage at a karaoke bar, belting an off-key rendition of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” Now a small hole-in-the-wall establishment that probably never saw a full house was brimming with Denver’s family, friends, fans, and probably some groupies. But the handful of camera-carrying vultures looking for that perfect shot were forced to circle the building and steal glances through the tinted windows.
Movie stars, rock stars, and star athletes might have glamorous lives, but that didn’t mean those lives were anywhere near normal. With fame came a lack of privacy, and everything they did in the public eye was subject to scrutiny. Some had mastered an understanding of the beast and used it to their advantage, while others rode it like a mechanical bull set to giddy-up-off-of-me.
And then there were the paparazzi. The paparazzi were more than willing to make the famous even more famous. Exploitation: it didn’t matter if it was in a positive or a negative light as long as someone was cutting the check for the fish-bowl look into the private life of a fellow human being.
What about the fans? How readily did they excuse bad behavior? When a star from music, television, or the big screen tumbled from on high, it affected their fans personally, and so the decline in their following was a guarantee. In sports, however, a stumble by one player could cost the whole team. Sports fans were some of the most dedicated and forgiving in the world, and most felt it was partly their responsibility to protect the team, much like a mother protects her children. The whole team shouldn’t be made to suffer just because one player “made a mistake.” And so it seemed that a suitable penance for a felony crime, in the fans’ eyes, required nothing more than a swift apology and another win. After all, winning wasn’t everything; it was the only thing.
My job as an agent wasn’t limited to making the deals. A client’s image helped sell them, so I had a particular interest in their representation. It had nothing at all to do with the direct reflection their behavior had on me, or on my perceived ability to do the job. Anyone in the business knew there was only so much advice you could give to someone with enough money to pay attorneys to get them out of whatever unfavorable or illegal situation they’d found themselves in. And as sad as it was, oftentimes, the more hype around an athlete, the more the fans were going to pay to see them. It was nearly impossible to convince a client to dial it back when their raucous behavior was making them enough money to pay the penalty tab and then some.
Denver “Rocket Man” Rockford wasn’t off the rails … yet. Though he did like to throw his money around and was obnoxiously loud while doing so. The man drew far too much attention, which meant everyone was always watching him. Case in point: the slightly drunken spectacle he was making of himself at the moment, literally throwing money into the crowd while camera flashes lit up the room like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Yep, he was a show-off, but he was also a fan favorite. And not only because of his generosity or the fact that he knew how to have a good time. Denver had earned the name “Rocket Man” during his sophomore year at Arizona, after launching a Hail Mary eighty-four yards down the field, hitting his targeted receiver dead center in the chest and winning the championship game. He hadn’t thrown that far since, but his stats were still off the charts. Having thrown for over five thousand yards and forty-eight touchdowns this past season alone, he was a superstar quarterback to rival the likes
of Peyton Manning, Tom Brady, and Drew Brees. If he kept on the same trajectory, there’d be nothing to stop him from surpassing all of them. Plus, the Hall of Fame was a no-brainer at this point.
He was worth millions, and I wanted him. Not in a dude-on-dude sort of way, but damn straight I wanted to add him to my client roster.
The behemoth stopped in the middle of the lyrics he’d been butchering when he glanced toward the door. He pointed a meaty finger right at me. “Shaw Matthews in the flesh, people. Give that man some respect! Whoo!” He jumped down from the stage and came right at me.
“Rocket! I had no idea crooner was part of your repertoire,” I said with my million-dollar smile and an offered hand, which he batted away.
“Man, don’t give me that crap. You’re family to Nate, and Nate’s family to me, so bring it in.” He grabbed my shoulders and crushed them with a mammoth hug instead.
He knew he was dead center on my radar and that I’d deploy any method necessary to sign him. Even if that method was frowned upon. That also proved I’d go to any length for him as well, so it was a win in my book. The fish-out-of-water stare I got from Cassidy meant she’d just caught on to what was happening.
Nate Hutchins was one of my guys. My number one guy. He was also a world champion skateboarder and snowboarder who’d medaled gold in both the Summer and Winter X Games and the Olympic Winter Games. As it happened, he was a native of Aspen, Colorado. Same as my prospective client. And with the promise that I’d keep him my number one, he’d agreed to play the go-between and say a few nice things about me. There was no “I” in “team,” after all.
With a hard clap on the back, Denver pushed me away, a playful expression lighting up his face. “Nate’s shown so much love for you, I’m beginning to think he’s got a schoolboy crush. You’re a pretty good-looking guy, though, so maybe he’s got reason.” He laughed. “You planning on stepping out on your main man with me?”
I turned on the Shaw Matthews charm and went to work. Slipping into a character to match his own, I laughed. “Nah, it’s not like that. Just thought I’d see if you’d be interested in a slow dance or two, see where it goes from there.” And then I winked. It wasn’t a flirtatious wink. Okay, I suppose it sort of was. I was trying to woo him into bed with me; it was just a different sort of bed. I’d have him hook, line, and sinker in a matter of minutes.
My very rude colleague wasn’t content to sit back and watch me reel him in, though. Stepping forward and angling her body in front of mine, she introduced herself; she knew damn well I wasn’t about to give her an opening. “Hi, Cassidy Whalen. I’m also with SSE. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She offered Denver a handshake, which he didn’t take, because his arm was still draped over my shoulders.
“Cassidy Whalen. I’ve heard some pretty impressive things about you, little lady.”
Little lady. Cassidy wouldn’t like that one bit. The slight set of her shoulders and tilt of her chin proved me right, though Denver wouldn’t have noticed. I was sure she’d bury herself if given the opportunity, but so far she was holding it together better than I’d thought she would.
Cassidy flashed him a confident smile and softened. “So tell me. What is it that you’re looking for?” When he gave her a blank look, she nodded toward the stage.
Furrowed brows melted into an expression I’d mastered all too well myself. He surveyed her from head to toe and said, “I think I just found it.”
If I didn’t know Cassidy Whalen to be the ice queen she was, I would have been worried at that point. She could’ve done a little shimmy and pulled the pins from her hair to take home the win, though I would’ve put money on it that she had no clue what kind of power she held. That was a plus for me. I had some work to do if I was going to persuade Denver that my game was better than her gams.
“Is that your family?” I asked, hoping to distract him.
“Yep! I like to think of them as my blood, sweat, and tears,” he said, pointing to his parents, lackeys, and groupies, respectively. He laughed at his own joke. I had to admit it was pretty clever.
“The girls are locals, but they know a winner when they see one. Especially if he’s a breadwinner. You know how it is.” He laughed again. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digger,” he sang. “Am I right?” The elbow check he gave me might have cracked a couple of ribs, but I smiled right through the searing pain. “Mama Rocket doesn’t approve. Still thinks her baby boy is innocent.” He leaned toward Cassidy, conspiratorially. “I’m not,” he assured her with a wink.
I laughed and clapped him on the back while turning him in the direction of his table, targets two and three acquired. No one had more influence over an unmarried man than the people who’d brought him into the world in the first place. It was my goal to get them aboard the Shaw Matthews Express, which would be easy enough to do.
Parents really liked me. Probably because the richer I made their kids, the fatter they got to live. If I was lucky, Mama Rocket would have a little cougar in her that I could finesse. Just a little, though. During the course of my career, I’d found myself in more mama drama than I cared to recount, and I had no desire to go back there. Papa Rocket, on the other hand, would be a lot easier to deal with. A man’s ego was always his downfall. It didn’t matter how true the words you spoke, as long as the stroke was just right.
Mama and Papa sat at the head of the table, and Denver shooed the occupants of three of the chairs next to them away before grabbing one for himself. I’d take my seat, but not before a proper introduction and warm invitation to do so was made. Mothers especially liked that kind of stuff. Denver’s mom noticed my good manners and smiled up at me.
“It’s so very nice to meet you, Mrs. Rockford.” I bent to kiss her hand, but to my utter shock, she pulled it free. Not because she was offended. Nope. It was because her attention was elsewhere. Like over my shoulder. Standing, she reached between her son and me for the one person I’d been trying to block. Mental warfare, an attempt to make my rival feel excluded. Clearly, my attempt had failed.
The short, bulbous woman gave a smile to my rival that was much larger and more genuine. “Well, it’s about time we get to meet face-to-face, Cassidy Whalen!” She pulled her in for the sort of hug a mother gives her child. “I want to thank you again for the interview and all the free advice you gave my followers. So generous of you!”
“Oh, you’re very welcome, Mrs. Rockford. I was honored to have been included.”
“Interview? What interview is that?” I asked.
Mrs. Rockford ignored my question and sat, offering the seat beside her to Cassidy. Dammit. “What’s with all the formality? Call me Delilah. After all, we’re practically old friends now.”
Old friends? I looked around for a film crew, thinking that surely I’d been cast unawares in an episode of The Twilight Zone. “Only if you call me Cassidy.”
Who cared who called whom what? Obviously, there was fuckery afoot, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it. I played it cool, though, kept that Shaw Matthews smile in place even though I was about two seconds away from losing my composure from all the niceties being thrown around. “So do the rest of us get to know about this interview?”
“Oh, it was nothing.”
Well, then in that case … What was that supposed to mean? Nothing? It had to be something if it was important enough to be brought up now.
Mama Rocket threw her hands into the air. “Nothing, she says. So modest, this one.”
“She is, isn’t she?” I turned to glare at Cassidy, who had the gall to flash a not so innocent smile in my direction.
“Mrs. Rockford …” Cassidy paused to cross her long legs—a move Denver didn’t miss—and gave Mama Rocket an apologetic smile. “Delilah writes a blog for sports moms. Sort of a ‘what to expect when your expected goes pro.’ A couple of years back, she interviewed me for a spotlight on agents.” She shrugged as if it was no big deal. “She’s quite talented at what she does. You should check it out, Shaw
. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about your job.” She laughed. In my face. In front of Denver “Rocket Man” Rockford and his frickin’ father. And then they laughed.
That did it for me. The gloves were off.
The best way to remedy a situation where you’re the odd man out is to blend in, be on the level, and learn to laugh at yourself. So I did just that. “Oh, I have zero doubt she can school me. Though, lucky for her son, I know enough about my job to get him the best contract out there. I can also sweeten the pot by landing her baby boy more national ads than any other player on the field. Because instead of giving free advice, I’d be out there making him money. That’s the sort of game I play. Am I right, Mr. Rockford?”
Denver’s father dropped the wing he’d been gnawing on to give me a “Hell yeah!” and a nod of approval. Bull’s-eye.
Boulder Rockford was a blue-jeans-and-leather-vest sort of guy with a chain wallet and biker boots. He kept his head shaved, his solid white goatee in a rubber band, and a silver hoop in his earlobe. If he hadn’t been on vacation with his family, I was sure there would’ve been a chromed-out Harley with a skull headlight in the parking lot.
Apart from the cliché, Boulder was a man of business. It was all about the bottom line for his boy, and he didn’t trust anybody, so he kept a keen eye on the numbers. A badass with a business plan wasn’t someone I was interested in jerking around. The last thing I needed or wanted was to have him go all Sons of Anarchy on me, so I was going to make damn sure we did things his way. Or at least make him think it was his way.
“I like you. You sound like a man with a plan.” Boulder kicked back with his beer.
His enthusiasm for my suggestion was just the invitation I’d been seeking from the head of the household. I grabbed the chair next to him—despite the overwhelming scent of Old Spice—and turned it around to straddle the seat and use the back for an armrest. “Damn straight. Now, Rocket, after last season, the sky’s the limit on whatever you want, man. The fans love you, the sponsors are foaming at the mouth to put your face on their products, and—”
