Kick It Up

by Carol Ericson

  “Spoon.” He held out his hand, and she tugged open a drawer that clinked and rattled with newly-purchased silverware. She scooped out two spoons and slapped one into the palm of his hand, keeping one for herself.

  “So did your mum yearn to be a beauty queen, and failing that, decide to achieve her dreams through her daughter?”

  “Something like that.” Her long dark lashes swept down as she struggled to peel back the foil yogurt lid. “It’s a scenario you seem intimately familiar with. Did your father want to play soccer?”

  “Hell no.” The familiar pain twisted his gut, and he tamed his grimace into a smile. “According to him, football is a game for boys, not a career for men.” He lifted his finger and shook it. “Aye lass, any daftie can laik and kick t’

  ball aroond. A real man goos doon t’ university and gets a reet proper job.”

  He’d intended to be funny, but her lips turned down and she didn’t have those crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

  “You mean you disappointed your father by becoming a world famous soccer star?”

  That’s exactly what he’d done. His father had dismissed his talents on the pitch as child’s play, especially because those skills came so easily to him. Simon never had to work too hard to put the ball in the net, until now. Age and wear and tear on his body made putting that ball in the net harder and harder, but it didn’t matter anymore. He’d established himself as a player, made a name for himself off the pitch. He’d achieved world-wide fame. Well, almost.

  “I’m not quite world famous, am I?” Lifting a shoulder, he dug into his yogurt. “I still have the U.S. to conquer. Even my gofer has more clout with the L.A. club scene than I do.”

  “No, I swear. The fact that I’m the ex-Mrs. Doe didn’t open all those doors last night.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He held up his spoon. “I’m not that fragile. I just intend to remedy the situation.”

  “Y-you do?” Her green eyes grew big and round.

  “Yeah, like right now.” He scraped the rest of the yogurt from the side of the cup and tossed the empty in a paper bag on the floor.

  “What about the groceries?”

  He reached across the counter and grabbed her hand.

  “Let’s get them.”

  “Then what?”

  “We go shopping.”

  She pulled out of his grasp and flapped her arms around the kitchen, resembling an agitated chicken...no a swan. “I just went shopping.”

  “Not for a car.”

  ***

  Jessica stood in the corner of the bright showroom with folded arms and a sharp headache rat-tatting behind her eyes like the drummer from Lot 49. Simon slid into the front seat of another Ferrari, a red one. She massaged her temples.

  Evan couldn’t blame her for this. They couldn’t tell the guy how to spend his money, could they? They couldn’t dictate the car he drove. Just because he had a fast car, a fast red car, it didn’t mean he had to drive fast...or drunk.

  Simon didn’t appear to be stupid, and he’d launched into a tirade against drunk drivers that first night of club-hopping.

  He waved at her out the window of the car, and then gestured her over. Her heels clipped across the tile floor, and she swept past the salesman, who sported an ear-toear grin. He obviously knew a big spender when he saw one and could taste a sale.

  “You don’t need this car.” She ducked toward the open window of the low-slung car.

  “Sure I do. I drove a Porsche in Germany. What I wouldn’t give to take this car through its paces on the Autobahn.”

  “Our freeways aren’t the Autobahn. You can’t drive a hundred miles an hour anywhere around here.” The salesman leaned against the car, clicking a peppermint-scented candy against his teeth. “Sure you can...”

  She shot him a glance through narrowed eyes, and he trailed off. She turned back to Simon, now punching the gadgets on the dashboard, which resembled the controls of a 747. “Why don’t you wait until Evan gets back? He can advise you about the best kind of car to get. Besides we drive on the wrong side of the road here.” He gripped the leather steering wheel, his knuckles bleaching white against his tan. “I don’t need someone to tell me what kind of car to drive.” He loosened his death grip as a quick smile flashed across his face. “Don’t forget.

  Germans drive on the wrong side of the road too. I’m accustomed to it.”

  Reining in this man wasn’t going to be easy. He didn’t like being told what to do. Well, who did? Evan obviously didn’t know his client, or he attributed super-human abilities to her. Although she liked the red, white, and blue outfit and the kinky white boots, she was no Wonder Woman. Simon swung the door open, and she jumped back.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “You’re going to take this car, right now? Don’t you have to order these or something?”

  He called back over his shoulder as he followed the salesman to his office, “Nah, this one’s good enough.” She eyed the sleek red beauty and kicked its tire. So a two hundred and seventy thousand dollar car was good enough. She’d done her best to talk him out of it, but she had a queasy feeling roiling around in the pit of her stomach nobody could talk The Boss out of anything.

  Apparently, it all started when his father couldn’t talk him out of playing soccer. What kind of man wouldn’t want his son to be a sports star? Most fathers would salivate at the thought, including her own.

  She’d done her own salivating when she went upstairs this afternoon and found Simon in the closet, naked again.

  This time he didn’t seem so unabashed by his nudity.

  Maybe the more he got to know a woman, the more selfconscious he became. In that case, she should keep him at arm’s length, but she didn’t want to. Plain and simple, she had the hots for him, and her fevered state had as much to do with his ready laugh and free spirit as those hard muscles and to-die-for grin. She liked him.

  Simon emerged from the salesman’s office jingling a set of shiny new keys. “I’m the proud owner of a Scaglietti Ferrari. Let’s take her for a spin.”

  She tipped her head toward the congested streets of Beverly Hills out the plate glass windows. “You’re going to be spinning your wheels in that mess. It’s rush hour.” He shrugged. “It’s not rush hour everywhere.” The salesman handed a set of keys to another man, dressed in coveralls, who came in from the back of the showroom. The salesman said, “Are you sure you don’t want us to detail it for you first, Mr. Bosford?”

  “No, I’ll bring it back for that later. I want to drive it off the lot today, right now.”

  The salesman snapped his fingers at the man in coveralls, and he hurried out the side door. Simon pointed to the car. “They have one just like this in their garage in the back.”

  Several minutes later, the man returned and tossed another set of keys to Simon. “She’s all yours. Full tank of gas.” They exited the side door, where a duplicate of the red Ferrari inside crouched in the driveway like some sexy, dangerous beast. Simon swung open the passenger door.

  Jessica took a step back. “What about my car?”

  “Leave it here. We’ll come back for it.” She ducked into the car, tucking her legs in afterward.

  One of man’s favorite scents, new car, enveloped her as she snapped her seatbelt.

  With a squeak of leather, Simon settled into the driver’s seat and inhaled. “Ah, one of my favorite smells.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  Simon had flicked a switch, and the top of the car rolled down. “Going topless. Haven’t you ever gone topless before?”

  “Not in a car. It’s not even spring yet. Contrary to popular belief, southern California does have seasons, and right now it’s cold.”

  “This isn’t cold, luv. Spend a night on the Yorkshire moors and then tell me about cold. Button up that leather jacket.” He turned the key, and the engine growled to life.

  The car vibrated as he pumped the accel
erator. He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “A V12.” She pulled a scarf out of her pocket and wrapped it around her head Axel Rose-style. “Are we going to sit in the driveway of the car dealership all night while you jack-off over your car, or are we going for a ride?” For an answer, he shot into the line of cars with a squeal of tires. Driving on the left didn’t seem to pose any problems for this Brit, and he zigzagged through traffic like he owned the road. The car lurched with impatience beneath them as they idled at traffic signals and crawled past driveways.

  Before she knew what hit her, Simon had maneuvered the car onto the freeway onramp and merged with the flow of traffic. He zipped over to the carpool lane, and as if sensing imminent freedom, the car purred and hugged the road at every curve.

  “Where are we going?” She clutched the edge of the low seat, her damp palms marring the perfect leather.

  He plucked his sunglasses from the top of his head and tossed them onto the wood console. “Just taking a ride. You seemed anxious to get going at the car dealership.”

  “Yeah, but I thought you intended to take a ride around town.” She’d planned a nice quiet evening at home for Simon, maybe a little TV, a little soothing music, a game of chess...

  Her head banged back against the headrest as Simon jimmied around a car foolishly doing the speed limit.

  “L.A.’s a big, sprawling town, and I have a hot car in my hands and a hotter babe in my passenger seat.” He punched on the car stereo. “Find some of that cowboy music you like.”

  Did he just call her a hot babe? She jabbed at the button on the radio until the sounds of some raucous country rock cranked out of the speakers.

  Simon smacked his hands against the steering wheel, tipped his head back, and yelled, “Yee haw!” The wind plucked his words from the air and scattered them like so many bouncing soccer balls. Jessica laughed and yanked the scarf from her head. Her hair whipped across her face, and she shook her head back and forth, a thrill of adrenaline zinging up her spine.

  The client is always right.

  Many miles and many songs later, they cruised into the parking lot of a roadside restaurant in Oxnard. They ordered hamburgers and fries and carried their plates to a scarred, wooden table by a window overlooking the freeway.

  With a furrowed brow, Simon studied the bottles on the table. “No vinegar for the chips?”

  She shoved a bottle of ketchup toward him. “Get used to it.”

  He shrugged and squeezed a red glob onto his plate.

  “It’s kind of relaxing not being mobbed everywhere I go. In Europe I have to travel with body guards a lot of the time.” She waved a fry in the air. “Evan’s hiring some security for you to replace your guys who couldn’t get work visas.”

  “I suppose I’ll need them eventually for certain events.”

  “Why is it so important for you to make a big splash, Simon? Why don’t you enjoy your freedom from all that celebrity crap for as long as you’re over here?”

  “I can’t afford to do that. That’s why the Waves signed me. They want to raise the sport’s profile in the U.S., put more bums in seats, and sell more gear. That’s what I’m good at.”

  “I thought you were good at playing soccer?” She licked the grease off her fingers and took a sip of soda.

  “Yeah, that too.” He flattened out the balled-up napkin and shredded it into little pieces. “Have you ever seen me play?”

  Evan had given her this gig on short notice, but he did include a few DVDs of Simon’s soccer games as homework. She’d never been happier to have completed an assignment because now she could answer him truthfully. “I watched a couple of the World Cup games. You were amazing.”

  He grimaced. “That was almost four years ago.”

  “Are you going to be on the next World Cup team for England?”

  “I’m not sure. It depends on how I look with the Waves.” Dark clouds scudded across his face, and his blue eyes deepened to the color of a stormy sea. He obviously didn’t believe he’d make four World Cups in a row. Did it matter? Hadn’t he already achieved enough success as a soccer player? Hell, she’d be happy just to hang onto a paying job for a few years.

  She grabbed his hand, drawing circles in a blob of ketchup with a French fry. He grinned, but his eyes remained flat. “This stuff is bloody awful.” She snatched the fry from his hand and popped it in her mouth. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t have ketchup in England.”

  “Not with my chips. We should get going. It’s a long drive back, and you have to get your car.”

  “That’s right. My car’s still sitting at that dealership.” He didn’t open up easily, but then who was she, the Queen of Clams, to judge? She had more secrets tucked in her pocket right now than a roomful of lingerie-clad Victorias.

  She stuffed down her disappointment at not accompanying him back to his place again. Stone cold sober she could do a lot more than pass out in those satin sheets of his, but he didn’t seem to have seduction on his mind tonight.

  When they got to the car, a group of kids had formed a semi-circle around it, excitedly speaking in Spanish.

  Smiling at the boys, Simon opened the door for Jessica, a perfect English gentleman, sort of like Jeeves with a hot body.

  “You like the car, lads?”

  “It’s sweet.” The boldest one stepped forward.

  The shorter boy next to him tugged on his sleeve and whispered in his ear.

  “No way, pendejo.” The kid knocked the other boy’s hand off his arm and shoved his hands in his pockets. “My brother thinks you’re Simon Bosford.”

  “You’re brother’s right.”

  The boys all chattered at once and clustered in for a closer look. One of them broke away from the pack and ran into the restaurant. He returned, clutching a fistful of napkins. “Can we have your autograph, Boss?” Simon glanced over his shoulder, a boyish grin matching the ones around him, splitting his face from ear to ear. “Do you have a pen, Jessica?”

  And just like that, these boys with their wide-eyed idol worship had banished the dark curtain that hung around Simon’s head. She clawed through the contents of her purse and pulled out a pen.

  Asking each boy his name, Simon scribbled on the napkins and handed them back. He jumped in the car and shot out of the parking lot, fishtailing on the asphalt, and leaving behind a group of boys with shining faces, holding their treasures.

  ***

  The pathetic truth stared him in the eye and he slapped it down. Recognition from a handful of schoolboys had lifted his spirits, put him back on track. How did Jessica always seem to lure him to the dark side? To the harsh realities he’d rather forget?

  A tall, sleek brunette in tight jeans and a leather jacket isn’t how he’d pictured his conscience. She didn’t even intend to scrape away at his armor, but her eyes, like the dark green glass of a bottle, mirrored his pain and uncertainty, inviting deeper confidences.

  His gaze slid to the passenger seat where she bounced in time to the music, singing loudly, long tendrils of dark hair scrambling about her face. Hardly the prophet of doom, gloom, and inconvenient truths.

  She liked a good time, and he enjoyed giving it to her.

  If he could just think of a way to get her into bed without coming off like a promiscuous sports star, entitled to shag any woman he fancied. That fact had never hindered his approach to any other woman, but Jessica...well, she worked for him, didn’t she? Evan wouldn’t appreciate it if he banged every woman at CSM.

  They cruised into Malibu, and the inky Pacific, flashing a line of whitecaps along the horizon like a shy new member of a can-can line showing her petticoat, stretched to their right. He’d been in California for over twenty-four hours and hadn’t been near the water. Time to remedy that oversight.

  He spied a gap in the highway, and jerked the steering wheel quickly to the right. Jessica fell against the door.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “I want to see the beach.”

&nb
sp; “It’s almost midnight.”

  “What better time to see the beach?” And what better excuse to wrap his arm around Jessica’s shoulder, pull her close, and exchange a little body heat and maybe even a little saliva?

  A parking kiosk huddled at the edge of an expansive parking lot, fronting a stretch of white sand. The black and white striped arm barred their entrance. “Hang on. What’s this?”

  Jessica turned down the radio. “It’s a national park. You have to pay to enter the parking lot, unless you eat at that restaurant. The restaurant’s closed and so is the parking lot. Back up.”

  “You shouldn’t have to pay to go to the beach.” Or make out with a girl on the beach. It was damned un-American.

  “You have to pay to do a lot of things here. Get used to it.”

  He swung around to face her. “Like ketchup on my chips?”

  “I didn’t say you had to like it.”

  He studied the sagging piece of wood in front of them and shifted into neutral. “This looks easy enough.”

  “Oh no, it doesn’t.”

  “Sure it does.” He hopped out of the car, leaving it idling. “Slide over to the driver’s seat while I lift this arm.”

  “Simon, I don’t think this is a good idea. You might scratch the car.”

  “It’s low to the ground, and it’s a convertible.” The moist air caressed his face, and he took a deep breath of the salty, briny air.

  She scrambled into the driver’s seat, but she kept up her protests. “Let’s leave the car here and walk across the parking lot. It’s not far.”

  “I don’t want to leave my car on the road. Someone might come along and hit it.” He gripped the end of the arm and hoisted it up. “That’s plenty of room. Now put it in first gear and ease on underneath.”

  The car rolled forward, the engine grumbling. Then a roar followed by a scream echoed in the silence, and his brand new Ferrari Scaglietti blew past him, flew across the parking lot, and plowed through the sand on its way into the Pacific Ocean.