“You’re going to miss,” I whisper, coming up quietly behind her, startling her into obedience. She fails to return the shot and spins around to glare at me.
“Very funny Maverick,” she pouts before throwing her arms around my neck. “You kept me waiting. I don’t appreciate that.” She bites at my earlobe and I press her closer to me.
“I’m always worth the wait, darling,” I remind her, my tone already slick with desire.
Ethan clears his throat and I step away from Selina to greet him and Marco who appear to be standing guard over Selina’s friends.
“How about I get you lovely ladies a drink?” I offer, and they all blush in unison, throwing their heads back as they laugh at absolutely nothing.
One look at Marco is enough to see that he’s seething. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve taken his prospects to bed…at the same time.
It’s almost embarrassing how well women respond to me. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to be British outside of Britain where my native tongue literally drenches knickers. As for my actual tongue…
I can feel their eyes on me as I stride over to the bar. I glance back and they pull their eyes away, faking embarrassment as they giggle amongst themselves. As I watch them for a while longer, Bridgett’s words sting the back of my mind, souring my thoughts. It’s not that I like my women easy; it’s just that it’s way too easy for them to want me. Every one of them except Bethany, my subconscious taunts and I can already feel the bile rising in the back of my throat.
I’ve never been happier to watch a bartender pour a shot of bourbon. Before he’s managed to tap the glass on the counter, I pull it away from him and throw it back in one go. Now’s not when I’m about to make good decisions when it comes to drinking. Tonight, I just want to get drunk, turn girls on, piss guys off and figure out a way to forget the shit fest that’s about to become my life.
I collect a few rounds from the bartender – a rum and coke, vodka and Red Bull, some fruity girly shit - and head back over to the girls.
“Here we go,” I say, somehow managing to fix my smile back into place despite the sourness lingering in my mood.
I deposit the drinks onto the table and Marco gives a half-assed toast to the lovely ladies in the room while I slide into one of the worn-down leather couches to my right. It takes about three more shots for me to feel at least a little at ease.
Selina, noticing that I’ve separated from the group, ignores the empty spot beside me on the couch and slips onto my lap, pressing her tight ass firm against me. She wiggles a little, wanting to incite something she can barely handle. But for some reason – that I hope has more to do with the alcohol than anything else - it’s taking a little more effort on her part to get me aroused. She’s hot, yes. There’s no questioning that. But…tonight, my cock doesn’t feel like she’s hot enough.
Whatever. It’s not like I couldn’t get it up if I really fucking needed to.
“What have you been up to since my last visit?” Selina whispers, her fingers toying with my hair.
“Not much.” If you don’t consider getting hitched a big deal.
“Really?” She smirks, chewing her lower lip like it’s made of Wrigley’s. “A little birdie told me a dirty little secret about you today.”
There’s a moment of fractured silence in my chest but I keep a straight face.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Well,” she trails a finger along my nose as I run mine down her thigh. “I heard you won’t be playing for the state title game.”
“Did you, now?”
She nods.
“I heard you’re being deported.” She leans back and starts scanning my eyes like she thinks she can find the truth in them.
“Is this why you came to see me?” I smirk at her, relieved that this is all she heard and ready to pummel the little birdie who’s been running his mouth’s face in.
“I had to come see for myself if the mighty has really fallen.”
My jaw flexes and warning signals go off in my head. I should fuck her just for that comment. Remind her exactly who the mighty is. Because I’m not about to pull my cock out right here and right now, I settle for pinching her bottom. Not softly enough to arouse her, but also not rough enough to cause a bruise.
“Ouch!” she shrieks and swats my hand away.
“And what have you decided?” I ask, tilting my head and licking my lips to taunt her. The more she talks, the harder I’ll fuck her. Selina might think she’s on top right now, but just you wait until I move this little party to the bedroom. Or the bathroom. She’ll have no qualms about who’s on top then.
“I haven’t yet,” she whispers, and gnaws at her bottom lip again. She thinks its sexy. It might be, when some girls do it. But not her.
“Well if the mighty suddenly needed you, what would you do?” I ask and she laughs.
“I’d drive him to the airport.”
Bitch.
I hear Ethan clear his throat beside me before whispering my name. Thanks to him, Selina’s not walking away with her ego beneath her heels. I glance over at him and he motions to the door.
“Perfect timing,” I mumble as Jessica struts over to our group.
“I thought I’d find you here.” She makes a face at Selina who laughs before taking a sip of her cocktail.
“What’s your problem?” I ask her bluntly.
“This is why you couldn’t meet me today? This desperate-looking tramp?”
Selina tosses the cocktail up at Jessica and just like that the entire atmosphere changes. I hear a startled gasp from the booth next to ours and I roll my eyes as the drama unfolds. Cat fights have never been my thing, but right now, it’s just what Selina deserves, so I’m not going to be the one to get in the way. Selina might have made the first move, but if I were to bet money, I’d say Jessica could do a pretty fine job of knocking her out.
Jessica fixes a wicked smile onto her lips and wipes gin off her face before grabbing Selina’s hair and yanking her up off my lap. She’s a tiny little thing, but the muscle in her arms tense and bulge with how tightly she’s gripping Selina’s hair. Poor Selina didn’t see that coming. With a shriek and widened eyes, she tries and fails to remove herself from Jessica’s hold.
I want to mock her. To tell her that this is just what she deserves. To urge Jessica to pull a little harder, maybe to slap her across that filthy mouth of hers. But I know better. And so I sit back and watch the action like it isn’t me these broads are fighting over.
Ethan’s on his feet in an instant, jumping up to grab Jessica by the waist.
“Come on, Jess,” he urges. But Jessica is having none of it.
“This tramp threw her drink in my face,” she spits.
“Jess, you’re acting crazy,” Ethan grunts. One hand on Jessica’s waist and the other around her knuckles, he does his best and fails to pry her away. My guess is that he thought with a little convincing, she’d let go. Latching onto another course of action, he yanks her backwards. But her fingers are firmly fastened around each strand that the only thing him dragging Jessica does is hurt Selina even more.
“That’s enough, Jessica,” Ethan growls, but she doesn’t seem to hear him over her own shrill screams and Selina’s shrieks of pain.
The fighting continues. One jealous broad trying to scratch the eyeballs out of the other. This is exactly what Bridgette was hinting at. She’s not wrong, of course, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about my current situation. The truth is, I would choose the both of them any day of the week over being married to Bethany. Screw the fact that she looked better in that dress than the both of them would look drowning in a bathtub of diamonds.
Ethan finally manages to pry Jessica away and keep the ladies apart long enough for Jessica to trap my gaze in hers. There’s a look of raw jealousy stamped all over her gin-soaked face.
“Go home,” I growl at her and she gasps at me, stunned by my rebuke.
“You’re choosing her o
ver me?” she asks, tears springing to her eyes.
“I’m not choosing anybody. The both of you are fucking embarrassing.”
She looks like she’s about to talk back, but changes her mind when I take a step closer to her. Tears pool in her eyes as she turns away from me and storms out in the same fit of fury and with the same energy she entered with.
Maybe I’ll apologize tomorrow.
I haven’t decided yet.
Selina and her friends all make a beeline for the ladies room. Good for them. Good for me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out on a sigh. The clock says that it’s not that late, but my annoyance says it’s late enough.
The guys are behind me chattering away, gossiping like a brood of hens.
“I’m gonna leave you lads for the night,” I say, lazily throwing the words over my shoulder.
There’s a show of protest, but I know they’re relieved to have me gone. I toss enough money on the table to cover the first and second rounds, making sure that I’m long gone before Selina has time to glue her eyelashes back on.
But just because I’ve left her behind, doesn’t mean that her words have left me. Who the hell is out there telling people that I’m going to be deported?
Dean Hamm?
Arsehole from hell. First he refuses to sponsor me or apply for my extension, then he catapults me under the bus right after suggesting that I marry the world’s least eligible spinster. Or was that my idea? I’m not sure anymore, but he was a heck of a lot more keen on the execution than I was, that’s for sure.
This is the second time for the night, I’ve thought about her. Or the third?
Why can’t I get this nuisance out of my head?
“You’re too sober, buddy,” I mumble to myself as I scan the block for another bar to head to for the night so I can finish what I started. Alone.
It doesn’t take me long to find a place that suits my mood. This is where the cool kids come to drink their brains silly and every shop owner jumped on the bandwagon, turning their establishments into some kind of drinking hole. They’re not fucked about fake IDs or underaged assholes like me. It’s all about the money to them. Some bars get a lot. Some get a little. I’m not really sure what causes a particular bar or club to rise to the hip-spot, but I can’t say I’m unhappy that it means some of the establishments are less frequented.
The place I choose is one of those.
No crowds.
No flirty females.
Just a worn-out bartender and a shit load of alcohol. All. For. Me.
I perch myself behind the counter and don’t look at the bartender as I order. She follows suit and doesn’t look at me as she plants shot after shot in front of me.
I knock the first few back in no time.
Employ a little patience on the second round.
Give it a few minutes before diving back in.
The bartender sets a glass tray filled to the brim with peanuts in front of me. “You got a bag or a can where that came from?” I ask.
She cocks her head to the side and gives me a look that could kill a dead dog. “You can get herpes from dipping your fingers into other people’s honey pots,” I say.
“No one’s touched the peanuts,” she answers. “They’re freshly poured.”
I pull my wallet from my back pocket and slap a twenty down on the counter. “You got a bag or a can where that came from?” I ask again.
She shrugs her shoulders, but complies, handing me a closed bag of peanuts. I think about nothing as I plop one after the other into my mouth. When my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s a human swimming pool, I order a few more drinks.
It only takes me ten more shots of tequila and five more shots of whiskey before I’m on my phone barking into the wrong end at the person responsible for all this mess.
“Wake up you peasant and come fetch your husband.”
“Hello? Maverick?” Through the fog of drunkenness, I can hear the sleep still clinging to her throat. Her voice is raspy, and my cock jumps, but I know better than to think it’s something other than the alcohol turning me on.
“I’m at...fuck I don’t know where I am. Come and find me.”
“Maverick?”
“Who the hell else is calling your phone at this hour? Are you being an unfain...unfail...are you cheating on me already?” I slur. “Is the poor wench shacking up with other random men?”
“Maverick… what the hell do you want??”
“You’re my wife! Is this not my newly bethroved…bethrowned…bethroth-?” From a distant part of my consciousness I cringe at the words coming out of my own mouth.
‘Pipe down mate’, sober me pleads, but as always, the loud and boisterous drunk passed down from generation to generation inside me wins. Plus, this is Beth I’m talking to, none of what I say fucking matters.
“Maverick, just…” she’s mumbling. Not at me…maybe to herself…maybe to someone else. For some ungodly reason, that thought bothers the living hell out of me.
I shake my head and feel the world spin twice as fast. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come find you,” she says. Her voice is calm now and sickeningly sweet. Like warm caramel and fucking decency.
“Slate, I think.” A whisper. A hiccup.
“Okay. Just stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
15
Indirectly, I’d heard rumors about the wild side of Maverick.
The animal.
The beast.
The life of the party.
Seeing him tonight, however, drunk and out of his mind, is more surprising than I expected. None of his words, when he finds the energy to speak them, make sense. He slurs and hiccups and his feet might as well be made of spaghetti.
Maverick has his arm draped over my shoulder, rocking me back and forth, to and fro with every sloppy movement.
“You’re heavy,” I grunt under the full weight of his frame. I cling to his waist and drape his muscular logs further up over my shoulders.
Finding him was a mission in itself. He wasn’t inside Slate, like he said. I had to walk for an exhausting fifteen minutes, going from pub to pub before I found him sprawled out on a sofa in some random bar.
I’ve never been to this side of New York at night, never seen so many drunks scattered in one place. And never, ever, ever, did I think that one of those drunks would belong to me. It’s not the kind of girl I am. And he’s not the kind of guy I’m attracted to, no matter how pretty or how Rockstar he looks.
Shocking colors and glitter seem to streak an entire section of the sidewalk and an unnatural blend of perfume suffocates the air.
After a half an hour searching, I find Maverick’s car. Thankfully, his keys are tucked into his waist.
With the entire weight of his body still weighing me down, I trudge forward. It’s taking longer than necessary to get to the damn car, but without me reminding him, Maverick seems to forget he actually has his own set of feet.
One speedbump turns into another as he whirls around a traffic light, before screeching the National Anthem from the top of his lungs. And because everything where Maverick is concerned, needs the kind of ending that is wholly, and irrevocably memorable, he bends in an attempt to bow, and manages to empty the content of his stomachs on the head of a stray cat.
It’s gross.
Revolting.
And absolutely hilarious.
Finally, when we are where we need to be, I shove him into the front seat of his brand new Lamborghini. I’m two seconds away from slamming the door shut when all of his hand takes a hold of all of my ass. To say that I’m stunned speechless would be putting it, very, very lightly.
Maverick, on the other hand, still has full control of his tongue. “You’re ruining my damn life, Bethany.”
Right back at you, Mr. Wrong, I think, but can’t manage to say because my ass in his hand constricts all words in my throat. When I’ve managed to catch a breath, I swat him away and walk what feels a l
ot like a walk of shame all the way to the other side of the car.
Slipping behind the wheel of Maverick’s very expensive, very unnecessary vehicle, I’ve never felt more uncomfortable. Not even both my kidneys are worth as much as this ride. And Lord help me if I wreck it. Lord. Help. Me.
I put foot to the pedal, a lot more carefully than I’m sure Maverick has ever been with anything in his life. Still, the vehicle jumps forward and I startle at the rushed acceleration. When I enter traffic, I do so only before checking left and right and left and right and left again. With my heart in my throat, I force the car to go as slow as it possibly can in the hopes that I’ll get us back to Maverick’s not so humble abode in one piece.
The lights of his high-rise apartment complex are blinding as I bend the corner and turn into the parking lot. When I slam the car into park, I finally manage to take the first breath I’ve taken since sitting behind the wheel of this impossibly expensive machine.
No dents.
No scratches.
We’re both alive, despite how far into the gutter our lives are.
Part two of my workout begins as I circle the car and unfasten Maverick’s seatbelt. I find myself wondering just how much of this he will remember.
“Alrighty, here we go,” I grunt, pulling on his arms. He pulls back and I gasp as he almost manages to drag me into the car with him. His grip is firm on my elbows though his arms start going limp.
“Come on,” I pull again and chuckle when he bumps his head on the roof. Serves him right.
Maverick’s eyes flutter open and he pouts when he sees me.
“What are you doing here?” he slurs, and I have to remind myself that I’m a good person and that leaving him here won’t help anyone. Especially not me.
I grab his legs and start placing them outside the car. And because my life isn’t supposed to be easy, his torso falls over into the driver’s seat.
Vile Intentions: A Dark Sports Bully Romance Page 8
