The Pact (Chicago Nights Book 2)

by Natalie Wrye

  For Chrissake, the uptight, turtle-neck wearing robot was almost normal for a second—like a human being. I try to remind myself that I need to act like one myself when the curly-haired friend Naomi was talking to edges up closer, a bright smile reaching her full lips.

  I smile back.

  “So, you must be Naomi’s BFF?”

  I grin wider. “How’d you know?”

  “Only the fact that Naomi just gave you a look that could melt your face off.” She reaches out a hand, her slender fingers extended, and I take it, holding it in mine. We shake.

  “And you are?”

  “Rosalyn Morales. New marketing intern. Trying to learn the ropes around these parts, and Naomi’s the one to show me. She’s good at this, you know. Handling sports. Handling you guys.”

  And don’t I know it.

  The personal assistant should have a title as a “Player wrangler.” Wrestling Sevin’s career and keeping the MVP from falling prey to blackmail schemes, groupies and the like were amongst the most incredible feats by the tiny titan—a pit bull in a skirt.

  As much animosity flowed between us—two opposites who could not be more unlike, I respected the hell out of her.

  If she weren’t frozen in ice, I admit: I might have hit on her at some point. There was a beauty behind those dark glasses, a hidden gypsy underneath the frost.

  But tonight she was all fire, and I’d been burned enough for one day.

  I smile at her friend, finding the feat surprisingly easy. “It’s a tough job. But someone’s gotta do it.” I cock a brow. “Are you up to the task?”

  “What task?”

  “Handling us. The players, I mean.”

  She sighs, and I take a step forward, the flirting as easy as breathing for me.

  This is what I’m good at. The flirting. The banter. The back-and-forth.

  Not to mention the fucking.

  If sleeping with women was a sport, I’d have been in the Majors long ago. But for some reason, though the flirting feels perfectly fun, I can’t keep my thoughts off the hot look in Naomi’s eyes, before she turned it cold.

  I turn back to my beer, rotating my attention back to it. But it’s empty as I lift it to my lips. I raise it.

  “Shit. Looks like I need a refill.”

  “I’ll still be here when you get back,” Rosalyn declares, grinning.

  Hazel eyes bright, skin the color of café au lait, I recognize that Ros is interested. The slight flush in her cheeks tells me so, and if this were a day ago, I’d be christening my room with her. On my bed.

  The fuck is wrong with me?

  It can’t just be the suspension. It’s something else.

  Taking my suddenly tired self to the other side of my apartment, I bypass the big windows—floor to ceiling structures that cover my walls in glass, hating myself just a little more.

  Hating that I can’t make myself the Sawyer I know and love. The Sawyer before today’s suspension.

  I swipe a random drink on my way to the bathroom, downing the entire elixir in one gulp. My steps are fast, a thin line of sweat working its way under my t-shirt as I haul ass towards the doorway, shutting myself in.

  A splash of water on my face should do it.

  Should push the funk away.

  I turn, beating my forehead against the closed door behind me, my long hair brushing across my beard as I take a deep breath.

  A breath that’s joined by someone else as I hear a small gasp behind me.

  I rotate, pulling a full about-face. Only to find a sight more shocking than anything else I’ve ever seen.

  I blink twice, not believing it’s real.

  Because there’s no way the most robotic woman I’ve ever met is sitting on my bathroom counter right now, one tiny hand in her pants.

  Glasses askew, pink mouth open, she gazes at me, gaping, face flushed to high heaven as I take her in. All of her.

  The collared shirt. The overdressed blue jeans. The open fly.

  Fingertips sunken inside her panty line, my best friend’s assistant stares at me underneath her dark tortoise shell spectacles, and I stare back at her, skin humming, heart rumbling as I realize that I’ve caught the most uptight woman in the world...

  Touching herself. The telltale signs of her being caught red-handed inked on her olive skin.

  If tonight wasn’t already a disaster, it is now.

  But whether or not the disaster is good or not…remains to be seen.

  Because I can’t stop myself from smiling.

  Chapter 2

  NAOMI

  Monday night

  I’ve never been the most confident person. And it’s moments like this that make me believe I might be right.

  I hate myself for wanting my boss’s best friend. For physically needing someone so un-needable.

  Every bone in my body has always reminded me that Sawyer Kennedy is unavailable to mere mortals. For good reason.

  I didn’t know if there was an official term for wanting to hate-fuck someone, but if there was, it was sitting somewhere in my personal dictionary under the words “Dumbest Woman Alive.”

  After I bumped into my boss’s best friend in his overly expensive kitchen, it takes literally speaking to my throbbing lady parts to get them (and me) back on track.

  He was so close in that kitchen I could smell his skin. And I swear every single hair on my wine-flushed body stood on end.

  How it was possible for a human to look so good and be so freaking loathsome, I’d never know. But I’d soon decided it didn’t matter as I made a beeline for the bathroom, telling myself not to panic.

  He heard me. I know he heard me.

  Telling Ros about my virginity status. Revealing intimate details of my love life (or lack thereof), and all I’d I wanted to do was smack that smug smile off his face.

  That “I fuck like a God” grin is partly responsible for what I’m doing right now.

  Masturbating. In his bathroom. At a party.

  Because I’m pathetic.

  The look in his eyes when he turns around from the door and catches me practically tells me so.

  For once in his life, Sawyer Kennedy is too tongue-tied to speak, and if my fingers weren’t currently on my clit, I might actually laugh.

  Instead I stare stupidly at the good-looking athlete, saying nothing. The silence between us stretches several seconds, and against all odds, considering my gift of gab, I’m actually not the first one to break it.

  Sawyer’s stare drops to the floor before flickering back up at my face. Combing one large hand through that long, caramel-colored hair, he blows out a breath that deflates even me, and the staring contest grows tense, hot even, the room heating around us.

  He touches his lips before talking. “I, uh… I…think I’m going to need another drink.”

  The words are out before I can decipher them, but still I say nothing.

  “You look like you could use one. Want one?” His words are rushing out a mile a minute. “Let me get you a drink. I’ll be right back.”

  I nod like a marionette doll, pulled by its strings, my head bobbing. Sawyer heads out the way he came, moving fast.

  Me? I hop off the marble bathroom counter, zipping my jeans up.

  One hand adjusting my pants, the other on my glasses, I set my outfit right again, wanting to scream, taking all my anger out on the reflection in the mirror. I stare her down.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, girl. You’re such an idiot. Masturbate at a party, that’s a good idea.” I mock the woman in the glass. “Of course it’s a good idea not to lock the door. Because who would be stupid enough to do that? Not me. No, I’m rolling out the welcome mat for whatever athlete in here would like a show. First Sawyer. Now who’s next? Why don’t I invite the Coach while I’m at it? Give Monday’s roundtable practice something to talk about before the playoffs. Just great…”

  I don’t hear the sound of the door opening until Sawyer’s staring behind it.

  Quiet as a s
ix-foot-four mouse, he stares at me, blue eyes shining with mirth, his lips twisted. A smile plays there, and just as every other moment we’ve been forced together before, I have the strange and overwhelming urge to smack it off of him…or kiss it.

  Both options are playing in my mind when he walks farther into the bathroom, extending a dark glass of wine in my direction.

  He tilts his head, gaze swinging to the mirror. “Sorry about the interruption. Would you like me to leave the two of you alone?”

  I reach for the glass, taking it. “Sure, thanks, that would be great. Oh, and while you’re at it,” I continue, finding my voice amid my anger, “why don’t you pour yourself a nice helping of bleach and drink it? Don’t think that tequila in your glass will do the trick.”

  The grin that comment earns me is dazzling. And I try to ignore it.

  I’m acutely aware that just seconds ago I was caught red-handed—(Or is it pink-handed? Considering what I was doing…) And yet, I’m talking to Sawyer as if nothing has happened. Not a moment of awkwardness. The strangeness of the initial encounter has passed and all that’s left is the enmity that always exists between us—the tight kind of tongue-play that has plagued our relationship (if you could call it that) since the second I signed on to be Sevin’s assistant.

  And I’m not the only one drinking. Sawyer nurses a glass of his own.

  Leaning in the half-closed doorway, letting the music from the party filter in, he relaxes against the wood paneling, arms on full display. In a t-shirt thin enough to cling to each muscle, he lifts the clear liquid to his mouth, taking a drink.

  I swallow, using all my energy not to focus on his lips, and I go for the wine again, inhaling a gulp that goes down like gasoline—fiery and hot.

  At least, the liquid courage helps. I open my mouth.

  “So, should I break the silence first or would you like to?”

  He gestures. “By all means, have at it.”

  I swallow, savoring the Cabernet in my mouth. I lick my teeth. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this.”

  “Tell anyone about what?” His eyes are innocent, hiding hints of playfulness. I hate him so much.

  “Tell anyone about what you just saw. It’s been a long night already. I don’t need it being any longer. I probably should have locked the door, but since I didn’t and you saw me, let’s not make it more weird between us than it has to be, alright? Yes… You saw me masturbating. And yes, I was doing it in your bathroom. But I promise: I will fully wipe off the bathroom counter as soon as I’m done. You can go back to pretending you didn’t see me here. And I can go back to pretending I’m not mortified. Sound good enough to you?”

  But I’m not sure it does.

  My boss’s best friend just stands there, gawking at me. Peering at me through dark golden eyelashes that are unfairly long, he simply sips at his tequila, suffering through my monologue.

  His face is expressionless—brow unfurrowed.

  The quick-tongued jester that has earned the title on his team as the playful jerk is uncustomarily quiet, and I take another sip of my dark red wine, buying time.

  Luckily I don’t need it.

  “Are you not done?” He asks, arching one brow.

  I blink. Once. Twice. Three times. “Excuse me?”

  He frowns. “You said you were going to wipe down the bathroom counters when you were done.” He tilts his head, his long hair swiping across his collarbone, spilling onto his shoulders. His very broad shoulders.

  I resist the urge to bite my bottom lip.

  “Because if you’re not done,” he continues, his voice unusually even, “then maybe you’d like to finish…” His tone goes entirely too soft. “I don’t mind.”

  I don’t know why. But my heart starts pounding in my chest.

  The sentence sounds innocent enough—child-like even. A bit polite.

  But there’s something that the broadly built baseball player isn’t saying, some hidden subtext I must be missing. Using the Cabernet in place of my melting courage, I lean against the counter, holding my chin unnaturally high, my glasses sliding down my nose as I pull myself together.

  I gaze up at him, wishing I were taller, hating that I’m not. “You don’t mind what?”

  “Mind if you finish.” His blue eyes flash. “In fact… I think I’d like to help you finish. Seems like maybe you weren’t doing the best job at it yourself, and I’m just wondering if I can offer a hand.” He stops leaning against the doorway, taking a step closer. “Or offer a mouth, if you prefer. I’m not particularly picky.”

  Picky. It’s definitely not a word I’d use for someone like Sawyer Kennedy. Impossible. Prickish.

  But not picky.

  I knew a thing or two about “picky”… I’d built a personal assistant career on it.

  But nothing in my career—no amount of my note-taking, event-planning, calendar-counting life can prepare me for when Sawyer closes the distance between us, setting his drink to the bathroom counter, eyes blazing.

  I set my own drink beside it, barely able to breathe.

  Head swimming, pulse pounding, I’m near swallowing my tongue when the one man on earth I can’t stand plants his hands on the counter beside me, sinking to his knees.

  Slower than I ever thought possible, he takes the zipper of my jeans between his large fingers, tugging it down. His eyes never stray from mine, fixing on my face.

  I squirm backwards against the counter, hands splaying to stop him, my fingers finding his lips and pressing.

  I bite my tongue in shock.

  “What are you doing?”

  As if I don’t know the dirty answer.

  He simply glares. “Helping you finish…well, since I interrupted what you were in the middle of. What did you think I was doing?”

  “I thought…no, I know that you’re asking for a knee to the nose. I definitely didn’t ask for this, Sawyer.”

  “No,” he says, grinning, shaking his head, his eyebrows even with my breasts, his stare hot. “That’s right; you didn’t ask. But I’m offering. You can tell me no, take one of those anti-fun pills you’ve been nursing all night and wash it down with that wine. Or you can salvage what you started here in the first place.” He grins. “Like I said… I’m only the ‘helping hand.’ Or ‘mouth’ as we could have it. It’s your choice.”

  My eyes widen. “You expect me to give you an answer right now?”

  “Hopefully. Tomorrow, who knows if my mouth will be all booked up? I know plenty of women waiting for appointments.”

  I frown, and he snorts softly, eyes glazing as he laughs out loud. “I’m kidding, Naomi. Jeez, lighten up already. Yes, of course I mean right now. As in the next few minutes while I’m still drunk enough to stay on my knees.”

  But I can’t stop talking. Can’t stop bumbling and fumbling over my words as Sawyer stares up at me.

  Barely.

  Even on his knees, he’s almost my height.

  Every nerve in my body is singing from his nearness. But twenty-three years of common sense won’t let me give in, my natural resistance—the one that saved me seven years ago—kicks in, skepticism making my eyebrows twist together on my face.

  I sigh. “Why? Why are you even offering this to me? I mean…” I hesitate over the next question, finding it hard. “Do you even like me?”

  He sniffs, eyes narrowing up at me as I stare. “Well, I don’t not like you. It’s not like we’ve been the closest people on the planet, and I wouldn’t exactly put it past you to knee me in my nose like you just threatened a few minutes ago. But…” He taps my chin and the gesture is softer than I ever would have expected from someone like him.

  An unfiltered, caveman of an athlete that makes the common ape look civilized. But there’s no denying the small amount of emotion in his large blue eyes—a startling Mediterranean blue clear enough to swim in. He continues talking, and I don’t say a word.

  “I don’t have to want to hold your hand and skip dow
n the street with you to be nice to you, Naomi Silva.” His oceanic eyes harden. “I heard what you said about that jackass date of yours back there in the kitchen. And to be honest? I think it’s pretty shitty that he stood you up. And since I’m the host of this goddamn party and I’m currently having a night that could double as a dumpster fire, I figured I’d at least help someone else feel a little less shittier than I do. But if that’s not something you’re interested in…then I’ll get off my knees.” He smiles. “I’m twenty-eight years-old. Not exactly a spring chicken these days and I might need these.” He points at his legs. “So, it’s your prerogative.”

  He adds one foot to the floor, getting ready to stand.

  “Just thought it might not suck to feel good for a few minutes, that’s all.”

  It’s the sexiest way I’ve ever been called a “charity case.”

  Essentially, the most handsome man I happen to know is taking pity on me. And that’s all there is.

  And I know that I should care about being painted as a victim. I know I should be offended.

  I know I shouldn’t trust Sawyer Kennedy and his wicked smile and wildly inappropriate offers and all the mess that might come with them. But then I hear Jackson’s voice on my phone, essentially calling me a “prude.” I relive the look of shock on Ros’s face—her complete surprise that a twenty-three year-old woman without a medical condition was living in a bustling city like Chicago and not finding some way to get off.

  And the two sensations cause me to do something I never imagined I’d do.

  I stop him. Stop Sawyer.

  My hand, the one that just held the glass of liquid courage, shakes as it lands on his shoulder, seating him once more. One brownish-gold brow quirks up in question, and I answer it, the frustrated virgin inside me shaking to her very core.

  I nod slowly, heaving a heavy sigh that practically falls from my tongue. “Okay…” I say, “I’d like to accept your offer.” I hesitate. “As long as it comes with no strings.”

  Chapter 3

  SAWYER

  I’ve never been the most humble person. And for a situation that requires being one, I don’t even know how to start.