Free Baller: An Off-limits, Sports Romance (Bad Boy Ballers Book 2)

by Rie Warren

  I was a military man. A marine. Ooo-rah!

  I flicked on the light beside my bed.

  Despite the earlier night terrors, my body was firmly linked to the now. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. I didn’t know what was worse: the memories of fake executions or the mind-blazing arousal knifing though me.

  My dick didn’t care either way.

  I kept my hands locked on the pillow. If I so much as brushed a fingertip against my cock I’d shoot off all over the covers. I hadn’t had a wet dream since I first learned what to do with my dick other than piss from it. Wasn’t about to start now, especially when the starring role in this little erotic fantasy had been none other than Ronnie. Somehow she’d replaced the usual fury and fear and fighting of my nightmares with one hell of a hot show.

  I tasted blood in my mouth. I’d bitten my lip, wishing it was hers.

  Jeeesus.

  Ronnie. Fuck that bullshit. Veronica. Doctor Hartley. It wasn’t normal to have erotic dreams about a headshrinker I’d only met once, was it? If the woman wanted to crawl inside my mind and take up residence in my body, she could consider the job done.

  It’d been too long since I’d had a woman. That was the only reasonable explanation for the fact I wanted to fuck Veronica to within an inch of her life, pound her into the mattress or through a door, find out if the hair on her pussy was the exact same vibrant shade of red as the strict tight bun on her head. The suit, the attitude. She’d put paid to that player Tail and spun me ass over end with just a few curt words.

  She’d earned my grudging respect and apparently a massive boner that wouldn’t go down.

  Hunter, on the other hand, would die by my hands for putting me up to this therapy shit. With a sexy chick no less, who looked like she’d just as soon bust my balls as ride my cock. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her like that, not if I was supposed to spill my stupid guts to her.

  I went for easy, easier, easiest. Clearly Veronica Hartley wasn’t that, and I didn’t need any more challenges in my life.

  When I deemed it safe enough to move my hands without setting off a cock-explosion, I grabbed my phone and glared at the screen. Zero three hundred hours. Three hours until dawn. I suffered from a huge erection. And I had an appointment with Doc Hartley at ten o’clock.

  Fuck my cock.

  Shoving off the damp sheets, there was nothing else for it. I couldn’t shut down my brain at this early hour, and I didn’t want to start tanking back the coffee just yet. The vodka would have to wait until it was a reasonably decent time of day. I’d been trying to get my shit together, which meant not going ballistic whenever a backfiring car sounded like incoming fire aimed at my head or hitting the bottle before . . . say . . . seventeen hundred hours.

  I’d set myself up as a personal trainer. I didn’t have much in the way of equipment yet, but I didn’t need too many extras. I believed in the old-school ethic, not spinning classes and treadmills. All I needed was a back forty, a nice spring day—although shit got even more fun and reminded me of boot camp when the rain came pouring down to create a muddy swamp perfect for a little bust-yo-ass obstacle course. Tires, concrete blocks, two-by-fours, and absolute mud runs.

  I wasn’t about to cater to pussies too scared to get their hands dirty by doing it the old-fashioned way.

  Didn’t have much in the way of a client list yet either, but I wasn’t afraid of hustling, and I’d hit up every veteran hangout I could find. Brodie and Boomer Steele—the head honchos of Retribution MC—had helped, putting out the word with their Chrome and Steele Auto Parts regulars.

  Hunter hit up the Mt. Pleasant police force. It was weird, people having my back, some of them little more than strangers. Sometimes it felt good. Sometimes it became motherfucking claustrophobic. Leaving the Marines had been like leaving my family, but surprisingly, others had taken me in. It hadn’t been a mistake throwing my patch in with the MC.

  But Hunter was still on my shit list.

  After pulling on a pair of gym shorts and my sneakers, I moved through the house on silent feet. After three months inhabiting the place, I’d finally stopped checking around all the corners before entering a room, or sitting against the farthest wall so I could see all entry points at any given time.

  Paranoia, thy name is Bo Maverick.

  I still didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I oughtta stop checking that shit. Tanned, tattooed, dark auburn hair cut close, no muss, no fuss because morning muster used to happen when I was deep in the z-z-z-zone.

  Those were the days.

  My last botched operation with Force Recon had done such a number on my head I was still a scrambled mess. At least the house I’d bought on the foreclosure auction block was in better shape. It wasn’t a huge spread, but I didn’t need more than the basics, and it was a damn sight better than my last containerized housing unit by a long shot. The small ranch was up-to-date with a decent yard and a high wooden fence in one of Mt. Pleasant’s older neighborhoods off Rifle Range Road. Maybe there’d been a rifle range here decades ago. Now the only one was in my backyard.

  Howdy, neighbors.

  The area was supposed to be prime for raising kids, not that I was anywhere near daddy material. But maybe someday. If I lived that long.

  The neighbors had done the whole welcome wagon thing with piping hot casseroles and platters of brownies. I’d almost nut-punched the civvy idiot who’d thrust out his knuckles to bump mine, shouting, “Semper fi!” in my face. The only tour of duty that asshole had ever seen was the video game while I bore the scars on my skin.

  The Brady Bunch neighbors had backed off after that. Couldn’t blame them. I liked to oil my M40 while I sat on the front porch. They probably thought I was more unhinged than I really was.

  Good impression, I did not make it.

  Oh well. What can I say? I have problems making nice with the friendlies.

  My ’56 Blackbird sat in the garage, babied and pampered and ready to rumble. I actually had edible food in the fridge, an entire set of dishes and silverware, a bed with a comforter instead of my military-issued woobie. Six rooms, four walls, a roof over my head Uncle Sam wasn’t paying for. Thus, this place was my palace.

  I made my way out the sliding glass doors, ghosted across the back porch, walked onto the dewy grass. Three thirty a.m. and all was quiet in the hood; only the waning moon and the night insects kept me company. Silvery light outlined tall trees. Flowers from the previous owners had started blooming along the bricked in borders. I stretched in the cool air, knowing I’d be working up a sweat soon enough.

  Not an ounce of fat covered me, just slabs of solid muscle. That was how I aimed to keep it. I stood a good six foot three, broad through the top, narrow through the waist, long and muscled in my legs. If I was serious about this personal trainer biz I had to be my own walking, talking billboard.

  I worked out the big guns first, my shoulders and arms. Weighted squats came next until my glutes burned and my thighs quaked. Lying on a backward incline over a plank of wood with a rough concrete block held to my chest, I went at the crunches, digging deep and putting every ounce of energy into each abdomen-biting move. Wrestling or sparring was always a good way to keep fit, but I didn’t have a partner at this ass-crack-of-dawn hour so I did another rep before stretching it all out tai chi style.

  I rounded out my routine with a five-mile run. No iPod. No tunes. No distractions. Just my feet pounding on pavement.

  And the goddamn unstoppable circus in my head.

  Last night was the first time I’d seen Veronica Hartley. She’d busted into Retribution MC, a woman on a mission to put me in the hot seat, busting me for making appointments I never kept. Ronnie. That’s what Hunter had said. I’d expected a man, not the soft-voice over pure steel pretty lady shrink.

  Holy hell.

  My feet ate the pavement. My brain burned rubber.

  As soon as she’d exited the clubhouse and I’d gotten my hothead under control, I’d found Hunter. “You didn’t s
ay the doc was a woman.”

  “Does that make a difference?” He’d looked mildly amused at my predicament.

  I decided, right then and there, Hunter was a dick. I didn’t care if he’d saved my life a time or two.

  Did it make a difference Ronnie was really Veronica? It shouldn’t. But for some reason it did.

  I could just kill Hunter and be done with this whole reentry into civilian life shebang, but he’d done me a solid getting me into Retribution MC.

  Ratcheting down on my speed, I jogged back to my house. I’d burned two hours, only five more to go until it was Veronica time.

  ****

  At exactly ten on that fine March morning, I strolled into Retribution MC, blowing off sexy Doctor Hartley for the third time. I was courting danger and I knew it. I kind of wanted it. Well, I wanted her more than I’d wanted any woman I’d ever met. Hence she was more dangerous than any IED.

  I couldn’t face her digging into my head and unraveling all my weaknesses just yet.

  It was only midmorning but a handful of dudes, including Hunter, lounged around the clubhouse. None of these men had had it easy, but they didn’t go around moping or sissy-sighing. They bucked up, marched on, got the job done, and looked after their own.

  And they also bullshitted a lot.

  Tail and Handsome traded covert threats while knocking pool balls on one of the maroon-covered tables. Kinkaid curled over huge sheets of paper spread out on the bar. Coletrane stood next to him with a pencil planted behind his ear.

  Kinkaid had just received his MC patch last night. He’d been prime stud real estate, from what I’d heard, but only had eyes for his best friend Sadie from the Ladies of Redemption sister charter. They’d recently shacked up together, and the lovey-dovey was in the air.

  I squinted at the plans he flicked through. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your woman?”

  “Exam week.”

  “Hooked a college girl, huh?”

  “She’s a damn fine painter, studying at CofC downtown. Sadie’s gonna be famous one day.” A note of pride filled his voice.

  “What’s all this then?” I angled my head for a closer look at the blueprints.

  Kinkaid did an awkward shuffle, which was funny on a big boy who’d been, until recently, a very popular stripper. “Plans for a dance school?”

  “Who are you teaching the moves to?” I asked.

  “Male exotic dancers.” The dude with the platinum blond fade grinned at me.

  “Tail’s his first customer!” Cole called out to the clubhouse denizen, whose long hair flipped back at the same time he flipped his middle finger at Cole.

  Tail cupped his crotch and lewdly swung his hips. “I was just kiddin’ about that shit. Got all the moves I need right here.”

  Tuck, the MC treasurer, strolled out of the back hallway with his kegger of a belly and his gray handlebar whiskers leading the way. “I heard Bo Diddley was in the house.”

  Cole snickered. “Bo Jangles.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Fuck that. What about Bo Derek?” Tail stroked his fist up and down his pool stick.

  “How about Bo-wie”—I unsheathed KA-BAR number one and sent it whistling past Tail’s ear at the far end of the room until it went tuning-fork, slamming into the wall beside his head—“knife?”

  Tail looked like he’d shat his leathers. Good thing none of his usual fuck buddies were in the house.

  “I can do a demonstration if you like.” I retrieved my blade and returned to the bar.

  Kinkaid looked wide-eyed at me. Coletrane grinned off to the side. I peeled out of my shirt and rolled my shoulders a few times.

  Hunter nodded his head.

  Tail stuck two fingers in his mouth for an ear-splitting wolf whistle. “You sure you aren’t tryin’ to give Kinky Kaid a run for his money, taking your clothes off like that? I got some dollah bills righ’chere.”

  A smile spread across my face, and I knew it was dark and sinister. Pulling out a second knife from my boot, I flipped the other one off the bar and into my right hand. Moving into the middle of the room, I found my center. The stone cold killer concentration.

  The blades whipped and flipped from hand to hand. I targeted, moved in, crouched, thrust, spun. I swiveled, twisted, threw, and retrieved in flash fast Krav Maga combat moves meant to kill but this time for pure entertainment value.

  Sending the last knife overarm, I nailed it to the wall between two Retribution brothers.

  Tail’s eyebrows shot up as the hilt hummed beside his face for the second time in twenty minutes. “Fuck me. I’m glad he’s on our side.”

  “No shit.” Hunter handed me my shirt. “Could’ve used you when Valderas raided the club.”

  My torso glistening and my muscles pumped up, I saluted my audience and they clapped with appreciative nods.

  “And that, my friends, is why y’all should sign up for some classes with HardCorps Gym.”

  “Nice plug.” Cole fist bumped me.

  “Hey, I got a plug right for ya here. Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.” I joked with the dude.

  “Oh. I know my way around a butt plug, Bo. Just not one used on me.”

  His comment gained huge guffaws from the growing crowd.

  Yeah. I figured there was a story behind the giant industrial chains he wore around his neck and wrists. Maybe the dude was a Dom? I couldn’t picture him as a sub, but you never knew. Plus, the heavy hardware on his neck . . . I knew enough about the lifestyle to be dangerous. I wondered if Hunter had any insight. He had his nose in almost everyone’s business, always quietly investigating in the background.

  Hunter toed up in front of me. “We got company.”

  “That was impressive, Captain Maverick.” A low feminine voice struck my ears.

  I pivoted around, jerking to attention as I came face to face with none other than Veronica Hartley.

  Goddamn.

  I swiped a hand over my sweaty brow and bit back a moan as I took her in. She wore another one of those killer suits. The pants somehow floated around her legs but left nothing of her fine, fine ass to the imagination when she sashayed on snap-crack high heels to the KA-BAR I’d sent sailing into the wall during my grand finale. Veronica pulled it out, tested the custom-made grip in the palm of her hand, and let fly with effortless aim toward me.

  I watched the incoming blade, standing my ground. Maybe she’d gouge my fucking eyes out and save me the trouble. Castration might be an option since my cock definitely misbehaved around her, and I’d only seen her twice. Things were bound to get worse for the troublemaker in my pants.

  No such luck.

  The knife found home directly between my booted feet, the hilt quivering as the blade stuck into the floor.

  My cock quivered in my pants, and there was someplace I wanted to bury it to the hilt.

  That shit was insanely sexy. And I needed to get fucking laid pronto by someone other than my would-be-therapist.

  “Screw Maverick. We want the hot doc on our team.” Tail stared at the woman as if maybe he could change her mind about him by sheer force of will alone.

  If anyone else called her hot doc within my hearing range, I might have to go bloody warfare on him.

  “Where the hell did you learn moves like that?” I asked, my voice gruff.

  “You’re not the only one with hidden talents, Captain Maverick.” Veronica marched up and stood in front of me, her hands on her hips.

  No shit. I hope her talents extend to some serious cock sucking.

  In the high heels she reached my nose. The suit didn’t hide her figure at fucking all. The short jacket that flared below her waist and long flowing pants only served to highlight full breasts, hourglass hips, and that ass.

  Her ripe body, her sensual face, and her shiny red hair all shouted sexy-as-fuck, but she seemed to be trying to tone it down with the suits and hairstyle and severe glasses.

  Hated to tell it to her, but her blazing sexual
ity had no dial-down.

  She was exactly how I’d dreamed her, only this time her generous lips weren’t wrapped around my dick but busy giving me another kind of tongue-lashing. How the hell had I remembered her looks just so, just right, after one meeting the night before? That was my payback for being a trained scout and sniper. Photographic motherfucking memory.

  Make that a pornographic memory.

  I tuned back in as her tirade petered out. The crew chuckled—completely entertained by the doc taking me to task—while I went all duh-huh?

  “What was that?” I rubbed my palm over my jaw then crossed my arms over my bare chest.

  Only this time Veronica didn’t hear me. She was too busy taking her own inventory. I widened my stance and stared down at her through half-lidded eyes. Her gaze walked all over me from the top of my head to my face, to my tense neck and down over my arms and torso. She didn’t stop at the low waist of my jeans, either.

  Interesting.

  “What’s up, Doc?” I dipped my chin lower with a smug grin.

  She lifted her head, a sneer on her lips. “Like I haven’t heard that one before.” She held up the hand. “You can stop right there. I’ve heard all the jokes, listened to all the excuses. I’ll tell you what’s up. You. Made. An. Appointment. I bill by the hour, and I always give and get my money’s worth.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but she stalked forward and slammed her hand over my lips.

  “Now you’re coming with me if I have to drag you out of here on your ass.”

  Damn. Ronnie was ripshit pissed. I tried to hide it with a scowl, but I seriously liked it.

  “Oh yeah? You and what army?” I was only half serious as I mumbled behind her hand.

  She dropped back. “I’m the only army you need right now. Stop showing off, put on your damn clothes, and hustle.”

  “Right on, Doc!” Kinkaid knocked his knuckles on the bar top.

  “Woman, you’ve got balls. You just lemme know if Bo gives you any guff.” Tuck leaned into her.