Ain't Happenin' (The Ballsy Boy Series Book 2)

by Shandi Boyes

  He stops checking his gleaming white grin in the reflection of his glass when I ask, “How long have you know Lorenzo isn’t gay?”

  Danny rolls his eyes, but it’s too late for him. I’ve caught onto his ruse.

  After a dramatic huff, he murmurs, “A nanosecond before he offered us a ride home.”

  I lean over the table to punch him in the arm. Now his tears are real. “Then why did you invite him to our boxing class?”

  “Just because he isn’t gay doesn’t mean I can’t look. Priscilla has been eyeing you all night, even with your bugged-out eyes not once leaving Lorenzo. She’s going to play the mariachi on her taco bean over you later tonight. You’ve given her a lot of inspiration.”

  I whack him for the second time.

  “Will you stop doing that! I don’t have brawny arms like Elvis. I’m fragile.”

  His reply almost makes me smile. “Want me to kiss it better?”

  I stop puckering my lips when Danny replies, “I’d rather you ask him to do it, but whatever floats your boat.” When he nudges his head to Lorenzo, who’s making his way to our booth, I draw in the duck lips I wish went out of fashion six years ago. “Have fun!”

  “Danny… get back here.”

  I try to chase him down, but my ruse is foiled by Lorenzo slipping into my booth. Unlike the other guests I’ve accommodated this evening, he doesn’t sit opposite me. He slots right in next to me, trapping me inside the booth with his impressive, yet height-restrictive frame.

  “Lorenzo… hi. Are you lost?”

  My eyes drift to the bevy of ladies vying for his attention all night. Even aware he’s a WHJ— Walking Head Job—for the men they cheer for every week, they’re still disappointed they’ve lost his attention. Can’t say I blame them. For a short-dude, he has an outrageously handsome face, and we’re not going to mention how his confidence makes him seem much taller.

  Doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on him, though.

  “Don’t be sad you’ve been sidelined. All rides have height restrictions. In this part of the world, it’s all about safety and praying you don’t get sued.”

  His whiskey-scented breath fans my lips when he murmurs, “I really want to reply to your sass, but then I’d have to stoop to your level. Supposedly, I’m short enough, so I better not do that.”

  His reply awards him my first genuine smile of the night. I walked straight into that one, and Lorenzo knows it.

  “I figured I move closer to save you the eye strain.”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered. I have no issues with short-sightedness.”

  “If only you could say the same thing about your jealousy, eh?”

  My mouth gapes, shocked at his audacity. “I am not jealous.” I’m a shit liar. Jealousy has been heating my veins the past two hours, but there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever let him know that. “But if it makes you feel any better, I can pretend I am.”

  The narrowing of his eyes reveals he isn’t amused by my suggestion. However, he needs to do something about the furl of his lips. He’s faced all my tricks before, but he’d rather me tease him than not interact with him at all. I shouldn’t welcome the notion. However, for some stupid reason, I do.

  Lorenzo signals for the waiter to bring him another whiskey before angling his torso to face me. “Talking about pretending, I have a proposition for you.”

  “If it has anything to do with your Smurf nuts, I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Prostitution is illegal in this state, but even if it weren’t, a janitor couldn’t afford me.” I take a mental note to increase my water-to-alcohol ratio when my words come out more slurred than I’m hoping.

  After accepting his whiskey from the waiter, Lorenzo requests for another man to join us. He’s wearing a suit similar to Lorenzo’s, he just didn’t need to hem the cuffs on his trousers before wearing them. “Thank you, Jonah.”

  Jonah dips his chin before making himself scarce within the crowd.

  My eyes return to Lorenzo when he says, “After our conversation in the bathroom, I took a few moments to consider what you said. As much as this pains me to admit, you were right. I—”

  “Am short? Yeah, everyone in the club is aware of that.” When his cheeks flame with anger, I bump him with my shoulder. “I’m joking. Please continue.”

  I’m not joking. Everyone knows he’s short. I just appear to be the only one who has an issue with it.

  “I came to America to experience the life I missed out on when I was young.” He talks as if he’s a lot older than the twenty-eight years I saw on his driver’s license when he was carded upon entry. “I can’t do that if I have no idea what I’m missing out on. That’s where you come in. I want you to be my guide.” He nudges his head in the direction Jonah just went. “Jonah will handle the business side of my affairs, and you will take care of the personal-fun side. All activities will be paid by me, and you’ll be generously reimbursed for your time.”

  I’m too shocked to form words, even more so when he places a check on top of a formal-looking envelope. “You want to pay me one hundred thousand dollars to be your tour guide?” When he nods his head, I shove the check back to his side of the table. “No, it’s too much. I also wasn’t lying when I said prostitution is illegal.”

  I stop scanning the club for undercover cops when Lorenzo murmurs, “Are you worried about being prosecuted? Or an inability to deny my charm?”

  “Puh-lease, Shortie J. Not all red-blooded women fall over their feet when cobalt-blue testies are placed on the table.”

  My attitude gets nipped in the bud when Lorenzo’s exit from our booth causes the stumble of half a dozen women in his vicinity. While they stare at him with hungry, wanton eyes, I glare at them like I’m a psycho prepping to eat her lover before anyone can get a slice of him.

  After shoving his hands into his pockets, which makes the women vying for his attention even more lightheaded, Lorenzo drops his eyes to me. “You have until five Friday evening to make your decision. Bring me your answer to the address attached to the paperwork in the envelope.”

  “What happens if the answer is no?”

  I’m hit with enough narrowed gazes to singe my skin when Lorenzo leans in to whisper, “Then I’ll find another way to force you to spend time with me.”

  His reply excites me more than I care to share, but it won’t stop me from saying, “You can’t buy me, Lorenzo.”

  He slips his hand under my chin to raise my head until we meet eye to eye, nose to nose, lips to lips. “No, I can’t. Because money can’t buy love.”

  On that highly unsuspecting note, he leaves the nightclub minus any of the women praying to warm his sheets.

  Chapter Ten

  Skylar

  My eyes stray from the unopened official-looking envelope tossed on my bed to Willow when she says, “I think you’re mad if you don’t accept it. It’s a hundred thousand dollars for not even six months’ work. I’d climb Uluru in a mankini every day for a year for that much money.”

  “But that’s the issue. He doesn’t want to climb Uluru.” I attempt to impersonate her accent during my last word. I miserably fail. “He wants to climb me.”

  “And?” Willow twists her lips that are barely seen unswollen these days. “The problem with that is?”

  I shoot her a wry look. “I’m not a prostitute, Will.”

  “No, you’re just a woman judging a man on his size, all the while demanding for people not to do the same to me.”

  My heart falls into my gut from her dejected tone. Willow and Elvis’s relationship has been going gangbusters the past three weeks, but when news broke about Elvis’s ex-fiancée being charged with sports fraud, the press became relentless. Elvis has sheltered Willow as much as possible, but anyone who owns a dress in double digits knows how ruthless the media can be when they want a scandal. They’ve called Willow many horrendous names the past week and even went as far as saying Elvis’s endorsement of a weight-loss product was his way of dropping a hint to his �
��new squeeze’ that she needs to shed the chub.

  Willow’s thick waves tickle my nose when she rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m reflecting my anguish on you, which isn’t fair.” She waits for me to hug her in forgiveness before continuing, “But I still think you should deny his offer in person. He went to the effort of drafting a legitimate contract in a very short period, so the least you can do is treat it like a real job offer.”

  “So you’re saying I should email him my denial? Check!”

  She giggles. It’s as adorable as her face. “Or… you could pull up your big girl panties and tell him your decision in person.”

  I gag. “Too much sex has made you stupid, Windy Willow.”

  Her eyes divulge how badly she wants to bite the bait I just threw out, but having her kinks banged out a minimum once a day has made her too smart to fall for my ruse. She’s not letting me deflect my issues onto her any more than Elvis won’t let her fall on the knife for the media shitstorm surrounding them.

  “There’s only one reason you don’t want to see him.”

  I quirk a brow. “Because I don’t want to waste my Friday afternoon getting a train into the city?”

  Willow kicks me in the shin. “Because the smirk Lorenzo gave you last Sunday had your clit thrumming faster than the marching band at the game.”

  I make a pfft noise with my mouth. “Whatever. It was the vodka.” I freeze when reality smacks into me. “Hold on, how do you know about the smirk he gave me?” The truths keep coming when a flare sparks through her eyes. “You little spy!”

  “Only as little as the guy you’re crushing on.” Her words come out with a fierce rumble from me attacking her ribs. “Admit it. You’re not turning down his offer because you’re proud. It’s because you want him to eat your fur burger.”

  We stop rolling around on my bed when I say, “It can’t be furry when it’s hairless.”

  “You went to Mallory’s without me?” She sounds disappointed she missed the stabby-nailed wax beautician at our local beauty salon. I don’t know why. A virgin isn’t pure once she leaves Elisa’s station.

  “I didn’t have much choice. We fought right on weed-whacker week.”

  Willow’s lip drops into a pout. “You could have shaved.”

  “And you could have been honest about your relationship with Elvis. We all make mistakes.” Anyone but Willow would take my comment as snarky. She heard my tone, so she’s aware there’s no malice in it. I’m merely being honest, and it continues by me saying, “Lorenzo’s face does stupid things to my insides, but I have goals and aspirations I’m not willing to give up. I just need to stay away from him, then my libido won’t have a chance in hell of overruling my senses.”

  “Sky…” Willow’s reply is swamped by our dorm room door slamming shut. I’ve got essays to prepare for. I don’t have time for a man who’s had my senses as short-fused as his height the past two weeks.

  “Whose game is this again?”

  My high tone almost causes Danny to miss the first step he’s climbing. My shock is understandable. I’ve attended as many games at the 69ers’ home stadium as my bank balance would allow, yet I’ve not once seen the parking lot this full—not even for the charity games. Whoever promoted this gig should be given a raise. They’ve outdone themselves.

  “The ticket didn’t say, but it was either this or watching Willow and E make out.”

  Danny laughs when I freeze halfway down a corridor in the underbelly of the stadium. I’m not just weighing my options, I am recalling fond memories. For a short man, Lorenzo had no issues pinning me to the door I’m staring at to savage my mouth four weeks ago. It was a beautifully painstaking thirty-seven seconds that hasn’t left my mind for even a minute.

  When the roar of the crowd doubles, I shift my focus back to Danny. “How late are we? Those aren’t chants of a waiting crowd. They’re in the midst of action.”

  He checks his watch. “They’re close to ending the first half.”

  “The first half? Sheesh, Danny. Talk about tardy.”

  When he stops abruptly, I crash into his back. “You’re blaming me for being late?” His words come out in rapid-fire hits when I nod. “How? You’re the one who needed suitable ‘team-color’ paint.”

  “It’s un-American to turn up to a football game not wearing team colors. That’s as bad as arriving at Thanksgiving empty-handed. Besides, if you had given me more notice, I would have been organized.”

  His head bobs like a bobblehead toy while grumbling, “I’ve given you plenty of notices. You’re too blind to see them.”

  I shouldn’t smile, it’s mean for me to do, but you can’t see what I’m seeing. An angry Danny is super-duper cute. “If you can’t convince Lorenzo to jump the fence, consider signing up for anger management classes. Hotheads should only be entertained for short periods, but they sure know how to bang a girl’s head through the headboard.”

  “Duly noted.” I step back when Danny comes at me with spit-coated fingers. “Too early in our friendship to lick and spit your fizz into submission?”

  I sidestep him like he didn’t just insult my pom-pom teased ponytails. “I don’t care if we’ve known each other for a century, we’ll never be that close.”

  An unexpected bout of nerves hit me when I reach the edge of the bleachers. I thought the chant of the crowd finals weekend was frantic, but it has nothing on this throng of thirsty participants. The stadium is at capacity. Every single seat has a bottom in it, even the nosebleed section. With the weather as miserable as my mood of late, the rooftop has been closed to keep the spectators dry. The hype beaming off the crowd is amazing. It’s a frantic buzz that thickens my veins as quickly as it speeds up my heart rate.

  Although I’m hyped with excitement, confusion overwhelms me when I take in the field. The end zones are gone, replaced with rectangular boxes which have white nets dangling off the back of them, and the players aren’t fighting over a leather-stitched football that makes mere men gods. They’re chasing a black and white checkered ball.

  Oh, hell, no. This ain’t happenin’.

  I pivot around so fast, my nose smacks into Danny’s chest when he foils my wish to leave by stepping into my path. “We can’t leave yet, we only just got here.”

  “Like hell, we can’t. No one watches this shit.” The crowd roars to life at the most inconvenient time. “Except these freaks.”

  I discover the reason for the spectators’ excitement when a commentator’s voice drowns them out. “Berbatov to Ricci, Ricci to… oh, what a goal! This man is an absolute sensation. Lorenzo Ricci… Captain Fantastic. We always knew this man was special, but that was more… than… special!”

  I jackknife back in just enough time to see Lorenzo sprinting for the sideline. When he skids to his knees to add more grass stains to his knee-high socks, the crowd leaps to their feet. They scream his name like football fanatics chant for Elvis, except their shouts are ten times louder and arrive with numerous requests for him to remove his shirt.

  When Lorenzo gives the crowd what they asked for, a referee races his way while digging something out of his all-black uniform. My brows fetter when he holds up a fluorescent yellow card in front of Lorenzo.

  “What’s the card for?” I ask Danny, suddenly interested in a game I’ve been previously disinterested in.

  I’ll never convert to soccer, but the electricity surging from the crowd is too exciting not to get caught up in the hype. I thought my sports addiction solely centered around American football, but this crowd is making a quick liar out of me. Their enthusiasm is addictive.

  It takes Danny a good three seconds to remove his eyes from Lorenzo’s bare chest, and when he does, his pupils are the size of marbles. I can understand his response. My mouth has never been so dry. Lorenzo’s body—holy crap cakes!

  “He’s being penalized for removing his shirt.”

  My eyes bulge out of my head. “They get penalized for that?” W
hen Danny nods, I shriek, “Why?”

  If the crowds’ response is anything to go by, their ten-second ogle of Lorenzo’s rock-hard pecs and abs ensures they won’t think twice about forking out hundreds of dollars for a ticket to next week’s game. I’m on the verge of cracking open the piggy bank I’ve had since childhood for a front-row seat to the farce, and I don’t even like soccer.

  Danny’s answer reveals he knows more about soccer than he let on when we made our hour trek to the stadium. “The hierarchies state it’s to stop the players from being injured by fans rushing for them. The players believe it’s all about the endorsements. If they remove their jersey, the logo of the company sponsoring their team can’t be seen.”

  “So it’s politics?”

  Danny’s screwed up nose matches mine. “When isn’t it?”

  As he guides me to two empty seats in the very front row, Lorenzo replaces his jersey. I can’t help but smile when the crowd boos in disappointment. It fades when a pair of soul-stealing brown eyes drift my way. I want to pretend the navy-blue paint on my face makes me stand out in the crowd, but the fans around me adore body paint as much as me.

  It is as if Lorenzo truly can find me in a sea of millions.

  After a frisky wink exposing his delight I’ve arrived for the festivities, Lorenzo returns to his position in the middle of the field. Don’t ask me what position he plays as I wouldn’t be able to give you a truthful answer. I’m as out of my element here as Willow was the first time I took her to a 69ers’ game.

  Thirty-nine minutes and three goals later, I’m mentally massacring over two dozen women. I don’t even care that they’re all up in my business from charging the railing to congratulate Lorenzo and his teammates on a 4-2 victory. It’s the number of times they’ve mistakenly believed Lorenzo’s smiles are for them.