Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1)

by Skylar Hunter

  Same game, different pussy.

  She licks her lips, pushing her crotch against mine. “Want a lap dance?”

  I don’t. Not particularly. But I’m desperate for a distraction. Anything to take my mind off the woman I really want.

  “Sure.” I lean back against the couch, draping my arms over the back of it. “Do your thing.”

  The brunette smiles sexily and begins gyrating on me, swiveling her hips like a seasoned stripper. She’s got a killer body and she clearly knows how to work it. But I’m just not feeling her, or any of this shit.

  “Mmm,” she purrs in delight, grinding faster on my crotch. “Someone’s getting excited.”

  Am I, though? Really?

  “Oh, my God,” she breathes in my ear. “The rumors are totally true. You do have an anaconda.”

  I cringe at the cheesy compliment, though obviously I know I’m well endowed—even when my dick is taking a nap.

  When she sucks my earlobe, I pull back and grip her hips to stop her gyrations. “That’s enough.”

  An excited gleam lights her eyes. “Want me to suck your—”

  “No.”

  Her face falls. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I lie to spare her feelings. “It’s been a long day. I’m gonna call it a night.”

  She looks hopeful again. “Want some company?”

  “Thanks, but no.” I pat her hip, signaling her to get off.

  For the second time tonight, she reluctantly crawls out of my lap and then sits on the couch, pouting at me.

  I stand and pull out my wallet, peeling off a couple hundreds and handing them to her. “Thanks for your company. Buy yourself another drink and get home safely.”

  She takes the money and licks her lips, her eyes lowering to my crotch. “Are you sure I can’t go home with you?”

  I chuckle. “Positive.”

  She pouts harder. I don’t know what disappoints her more: being deprived of my fortune or the pleasure of riding my dick. You can never tell with groupies.

  I leave her sulking on the couch and head over to let my teammates know that I’m out. They greet the news with disbelieving groans and urge me to stick around.

  “Nah. I’m good. Night, fellas.”

  “Night, boss,” they echo, voices slurring.

  The bouncer posted by the door nods to me. “Let me get someone to escort you downstairs. After a few too many drinks, some of these losers start wilding out and picking fights. Athletes and rappers seem to be their favorite targets.”

  I chuckle. “I’ll be fine.”

  “No doubt,” he agrees, eyeing me up and down. “I know you can handle yourself, big guy. But just to play it safe, make sure you take the VIP exit.” He grins. “Gotta protect the NFL’s $180 million investment.”

  “Gotcha.” I give him a two-finger salute. “Night, Garry.”

  As I start to walk away, he calls out, “Oh, hey.”

  I turn back.

  He looks slightly sheepish. “Was everything okay with Emerson? She kinda left in a hurry. Seemed pretty upset.”

  “Did she?” My tone is indifferent. “I didn’t even notice.”

  He frowns, but I’m already walking off.

  I’m still thinking about her on Monday morning as I stand before the windows of my downtown office.

  Three years ago I founded a nonprofit membership association in honor of my mother, who died of ovarian cancer when I was sixteen.

  I’m still staffing the southern regional office and I need to hire a director, so I’ve got a full day of interviews scheduled. I should be preparing questions or something, but I can’t focus worth shit.

  Because I’ve got Emerson on the brain, consuming my every thought.

  Although it’s hazardous to my sanity, I keep replaying the day she broke my heart. As long as I live, I’ll never forget waking up that fateful morning in Vegas to find her sitting up in bed beside me, her shoulders hunched over as she quietly sobbed into her hands.

  Alarm and dread had shot through me.

  “Emerson?” I’d whispered, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

  “We can’t do this, Reyes. I–I can’t marry you.”

  Her words were like a gut punch. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t . . .” She’d gulped back tears, her voice catching. “I don’t love you enough.”

  She couldn’t have hurt me more if she drove a stake through my heart.

  I still remember the excruciating flight home—her detached silence juxtaposed with my raging confusion. When I stormed over to her house the next day to confront her, she’d treated me like a fucking stranger, standing on the porch with her arms crossed and delivering the final blow: “I don’t want to see you anymore. Go to college and forget about me.”

  I took my heartbroken ass to California and buried myself in biochemistry and football, trying my damnedest to erase all memory of the girl I’d so stupidly loved.

  Obviously it didn’t work. Because here I am, eight years later, still very much not over her.

  “Mr. Malone? Did you hear me?”

  I turn from the window to find my assistant watching me expectantly from the doorway. I wonder how long she’s been trying to get my attention.

  “The U.S. attorney is here to see you,” she announces.

  I blink at her. “The . . . U.S. attorney?”

  Grace frowns. “Your uncle, sir. He’s here to see you.”

  “Is he?” I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. I’m not in the mood for a visit from my uncle or any other member of the Malone family. I’m not even officially open for business yet.

  “What do you want me to do, sir? He’s waiting.” Grace sounds worried. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yes, of course.” I wave away her concern. “Please show him in.”

  She nods and disappears from the doorway, returning a few moments later with my uncle, who strides into the room with the same air of importance he enters every room.

  The sight of him has my gut knotting with tension.

  Tall and broad shouldered, he’s dressed in one of his impeccably tailored suits with expensive Italian loafers. His thick black hair is threaded with silver and there are crinkles around his deep blue eyes. With his aristocrat’s nose and square chin, he’s handsome and photogenic—a political fixer’s dream candidate.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Grace asks me. “Perhaps your uncle would care for something to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Brigham declines, patting his stomach. “I just came from a big luncheon. I couldn’t eat or drink another thing.”

  I walk to the bar and pour myself a glass of water from an ice-filled pitcher. “That’ll be all, Grace. Thank you.”

  She smiles and takes her leave, closing the double doors behind her with a discreet click.

  “Pretty little thing,” my uncle says appreciatively. “Where’d you find her on such short notice?”

  “An employment agency.” I give him a cool smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “Now, Reyes,” he chides in a deep Carolina drawl dripping with persuasive charm. “Do I really need a reason to pay a visit to my nephew?”

  “Of course not,” I drawl back. “But then it’s not every day one gets visited by the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of North Carolina. I’m flattered.”

  His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes my face, trying to gauge whether I’m being sarcastic or not. After a beat or two, he smiles at me. It’s a politician’s smile, which means it’s about as authentic as a ten-dollar Rolex at a flea market.

  “No need to be flattered, my dear boy.” Without waiting for an invitation, he lowers himself into the leather visitor’s chair opposite my desk. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re settling in. This is quite a setup you’ve got for yourself here.” He casts an appreciative eye around the huge office suite with sweeping views of downtown Piedmont Bay
. “I’m impressed.”

  Sipping my water, I take my seat behind the large glass and steel desk. “So how are things going on the campaign trail?” I ask more out of formality than genuine interest.

  “Things are going superbly,” Brigham boasts. “I’m picking up key endorsements and polling well ahead of my opponents, which should come as no surprise to anyone who’s been paying attention. I’m the most qualified candidate in the field, and the voters obviously agree.” He leans back and slaps his thigh in satisfaction, practically taking a victory lap. “We’re kicking into high gear this month with more campaign rallies and fundraisers. Which reminds me, we’re hosting a dinner party on the twenty-eighth. I trust you’ll be in attendance?”

  It’s a subtle command, not a request. Brigham Malone is a man used to getting what he wants, always has been.

  After earning his Harvard law degree, he returned home and worked at the family law firm before leaving to join the district attorney’s office, rising quickly through the ranks to become DA. His winning record and reputation as a ruthless prosecutor got him appointed U.S. attorney when he was only thirty-four.

  Nicknamed General Brigs, he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Never really felt the need to learn.

  “Grandmother told me about the dinner party,” I answer smoothly. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “Yes, of course.” Brigham smiles benignly. “We’re all looking forward to the new football season, especially Susanna. She’s been bragging to all her friends about her famous cousin who’s going to lead the Renegades to their first Super Bowl victory.”

  I chuckle. “Ever the optimist, isn’t she?”

  “She gets that from her mother.”

  “How is Aunt Coralee?” I ask politely. “She’s the only one I haven’t seen since I’ve been back.”

  “Oh, she’s keeping herself busy as a bee. Between her charity work and civic engagements, I hardly ever see the woman myself,” Brigham complains lightheartedly.

  I smile a little, imagining Aunt Coralee with her prim smile and dulcet voice. Another difference between my uncle and me, among many others, is our taste in women. Brigham likes them proper and docile, eager to please. I like my women with spunk. Feisty, defiant, a sexy little hellcat who takes no shit and keeps me on my toes.

  Like Emerson.

  “Which reminds me,” Brigham continues, “she mentioned an interest in serving on your conference planning committee.”

  I almost forgot who we were discussing. “Aunt Coralee?”

  “Yes. She’s very active in the local American Cancer Society chapter, and she may know of some good speakers for your next conference in . . . ?”

  “October,” I supply. “By all means, I’ll have the conference chairwoman give her a call. They’ve already been holding meetings, but I’m sure they won’t mind the additional assistance.”

  Brigham nods with satisfaction. “Coralee will be pleased.”

  Grace’s voice crackles over the intercom on my desk. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Your ten o’clock appointment is here.”

  “Thank you, Grace. I’ll be out in a minute.” Grateful for the interruption, I explain to my uncle, “I’m still interviewing for a southern regional director. Finding the right candidate has been more challenging than I anticipated. Or maybe I’m just expecting too much.”

  “No such thing. You only want the best.” Brigham pauses, silently appraising me. “We’re very much alike in that manner.”

  We’re nothing alike, you despicable son of a bitch. Not even fucking close.

  I bite back the harsh words, choking down the bitterness like I’ve done so many times before.

  “Your father and I didn’t see eye to eye on many things,” Brigham admits. “In fact, we disagreed so much we often wondered if we were really brothers.”

  I smile narrowly. “He told me.”

  “Of course he did.” Brigham rises smoothly to his feet. “I’d like to think we can all put that legacy behind us. I hope you and I can forge a new—what shall we call it? Partnership? Yes, that’s a good word. We can be partners who share common interests.”

  I stare at him, struck by a memory of him and my grandparents gossiping about my mother. I remember how fucking enraged I’d felt that summer afternoon when I’d stumbled upon them huddled together in Grandfather’s library. They were like a cabal of conspirators, sneering over something my mother had said to a guest during one of their high society garden parties.

  The slanderous whispers never would have been repeated to her face. That wasn’t their style. Their weapons of choice were icy silences, veiled insults, fake smiles, mocking looks, hushed murmurs behind her back. Nothing she ever did was good enough for them. Her only crime? Not being a southern blueblood.

  As I’d stood in the doorway glaring at them that summer afternoon, Grandfather had dropped his eyes in guilty silence. Grandmother offered an awkward tight-lipped smile. Only Brigham showed no remorse, meeting my eyes with haughty defiance.

  As the old memory reignites my anger, contempt spreads through my veins like liquid nitrogen, turning my voice to ice. “Let’s just take it one day at a time, shall we? No partnership is built overnight.”

  Brigham hesitates, his eyes narrowing on mine.

  I rise to my feet, staring him down. He has to know that I despise him. Even when I’m exercising the utmost restraint, he has to feel the hostility rolling off me in radioactive waves.

  Finally he huffs a laugh, ending our silent standoff. “How right you are, Junior. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither will our partnership be.” He reaches across the desk and grasps my hand in a hearty handshake. “Just saw the press release about your ribbon-cutting ceremony. Wednesday, right?”

  I nod curtly.

  “Excellent. I’ll be there in full support.” He pumps my hand one more time, then turns and heads for the door.

  I glare after him, my jaw locked tight.

  Pausing at the doorway, he casts another glance around the office and nods approvingly. “My nephew, the self-made multimillionaire. You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Reyes. Done us all proud.”

  My lips curl in a mocking half smile. “Nothing but the best, right, Uncle?”

  “Damn right.” He laughs and opens one of the double doors. “Take care, nephew. I’ll tell Coralee to expect that call.”

  And then he’s gone, closing the door firmly behind him.

  I slowly unclench my jaw and draw a deep breath, then press the intercom button.

  “Grace,” I say evenly, glancing at the resume on my desk, “please send in Ms. Clayton.”

  My phone buzzes with an incoming Skype call as I walk through my front door that evening.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket and smile when I see my father’s face on the screen. Like his older brother, Brooks had inherited the Malone blue eyes, coal-black hair and aristocratic features.

  “Hey, Dad,” I answer warmly.

  “Hey there, son.” My father’s deep, rumbling voice resonates with the Carolina drawl he never lost despite leaving home at twenty-two and never looking back. “Just calling to see how your day went. You had more interviews today, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, heading into the kitchen to grab a cold beer from the fridge. “I’m happy to report that I finally found my southern regional director.”

  “Hey, that’s fantastic,” Dad enthuses. “Congratulations. I know you were starting to get a little antsy.”

  “Just a little,” I admit with a chuckle, twisting the cap off my beer and stepping out on the large terrace. “Darynda’s the perfect fit. Just what I was looking for.”

  “Glad to hear it. I look forward to meeting her at this year’s conference.”

  “Definitely. You’re gonna like her.” I drop into a cushioned chair and take a swig of beer. “So what’s new with you, Dad?”

  “Not much. Weaned a foal today.”

  “Yeah? How’d that go?”


  We spend the next several minutes chatting about horses and ranch business.

  Despite his family pedigree, my father never wanted to become a powerhouse lawyer with baby-soft palms and bespoke suits. He enjoyed being outdoors, working with his hands and getting dirty. He wanted to grow crops and raise livestock on land that he personally owned. So after graduating from Harvard and cashing out his trust fund, he moved to New Mexico and bought a thousand acres of land to start a cattle ranch.

  To learn more about agriculture and ranching, he enrolled in classes at the local community college. That’s where he met my mother, who was participating in a viticulture program after earning an enology degree in Italy. The eldest daughter of the Galindo winemaking family of Spain, Natalia had traveled to New Mexico to explore the nation’s oldest winemaking region. She ended up stealing my father’s heart and losing her own.

  Bucking family tradition made Brooks an outcast. But that never stopped him from being his own man and living life on his own terms. He’s the rebel of the family and my hero. Always has been.

  Sipping my beer, I watch as he tosses a stick that sends his two Australian shepherds bounding in pursuit, tongues lolling and tails wagging.

  “I see the old hounds still got some hustle in ’em,” I tease.

  Dad laughs. “Better not let Tahoma hear you calling them old,” he warns, referring to his longtime foreman. “He’d take you over his knee for such an insult.”

  “I know he would,” I say laughingly as I watch the dogs wrestle over the stick, barking and yapping excitedly. I can see the ranch house behind them, sprawled beneath the big New Mexico sky. I feel a sharp pang of homesickness.

  Dad comes back on the screen, his expression gentle. “So how’s our girl doing? Have you seen her since the press conference?”

  My smile fades, chest tightening automatically. Of course he’d ask about Emerson. He adored her and always treated her like his own daughter. No matter what happens between her and me, she’ll always be special to my father. I’ve learned to accept it, though it hasn’t been easy.