Thousand Yard Bride
Page 1
Thousand Yard Bride
Nora Flite
Allison Starwood
Contents
Copyright
Also by Nora Flite
1. Hunter
2. Jo
3. Jo
4. Jo
5. Hunter
6. Jo
7. Hunter
8. Jo
9. Jo
10. Hunter
11. Jo
12. Hunter
13. Jo
14. Jo
15. Jo
16. Hunter
17. Jo
18. Jo
19. Jo
20. Hunter
21. Hunter
22. Jo
23. Hunter
24. Hunter
25. Jo
26. Hunter
27. Jo
28. Hunter
29. Hunter
30. Hunter
31. Hunter
About the Author
Also by Nora Flite
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Copyright © 2016 by Nora Flite
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All rights reserved. THOUSAND YARD BRIDE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Also by Nora Flite
Big City Billionaires Series
Billion Dollar Bad Boy
Other Books:
Never Kiss a Bad Boy
The Bad Boy Arrangement
My Secret Master
Last of the Bad Boys
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1
Hunter
It was three in the morning and I’d been wasted since midnight.
Most people would realize this meant they'd feel like shit when they woke up the next day—or the same day, I guess. Honestly, I didn’t care if I felt like shit in the morning. I deserved to celebrate.
I’d just had the best—genuinely, the best—week of my life. How could a guy like me not let loose in Las Vegas? It was fucking perfect. Nothing could make this moment better.
That didn't mean I wasn't going to try.
My buddy, Reese, grinned at me as he held up a glass. He had to yell over the 90s grunge music exploding from the bar speakers to get everyone’s attention. “Listen up! This one is for the man of the hour." He pointed straight at me with that crooked grin of his. "Mister Fucking Hunter Daniels Junior himself! Let’s hear it for the new Croc-Cooler spokesman!”
Deep down, in a part of me that wasn't saturated in alcohol, something twanged with irritation. I'd told Reese to keep the Croc-Cooler deal on the down low. He'd always been shit at secrets—maybe it was my fault for letting him in on the news.
It was definitely my fault for letting him talk me into this last minute trip to Vegas. I'd hijacked my dad's jet, stuffing it with friends and insanely hot cheerleaders.
Okay. Fine. I wasn't innocent in this plan.
Still, Reese shouldn't have blurted out the news. Though it was probably the reason half the girls were now eyeing me up and down like I was a stack of prime steaks rolled up in hundred dollar bills.
I'd been throwing cash around like high-fives all night, Reese's toast to me just cinched it; everyone wanted a piece of me. Hey, I'm not selfish. I like to share, and it was only three in the morning.
When I celebrate, I go hard. If there was one thing I loved more than running the ball into the end zone, more than hearing the crowds screaming my name, it was what came after the win: the parties, the beer, and, you guessed it, the women. There was no better feeling than fucking after killing it on the field.
What can I say? I play hard, party harder, but fuck hardest.
Across the room I saw a girl I recognized as a Hawks cheerleader. Her name was Chelsea Something-or-other. She was testing the limits of her jean skirt as it hugged her big, gorgeous ass.
Chelsea must have been feeling my vibe because she bit her lip at me as I checked her out. I loved a girl who could flirt back. There's nothing wrong with the chase or whatever, but fuck, give me a woman who wants to get straight to the down and nasty.
And Chelsea's mega-deep-breath-that-showed-off-her-tits was a power move.
Maybe tomorrow I'd remember her full name. Who knows?
Right before I could cross Chelsea off my list, some d-bag in a vintage Hawks' hat patted me on the back and said, “Congrats, Eighty-Three. Looking forward to watching you again this season. Bet your pops is proud, too.”
“Thanks,” I said with mock humility. I absolutely hated it when people brought up my dad, like I had to report to him or something. I figured that after we won the Super Bowl this season, people wouldn’t even remember who he was, and maybe I wouldn’t have to hear about his football career ever again. Well, at least not from anyone but Dad himself. No way he'd ever stop bragging.
“You must feel like a million bucks,” Hat Guy added, before wandering back to the bar.
He might have been cock-blocking me from scoring with Chelsea, but he wasn’t wrong. I did feel like a million bucks. Better than a million bucks.
On Monday, the Hawks extended my contract. The day after, Croc-Cooler sent over their six-figure agreement paperwork. As soon as I signed it, my face would be in every sports magazine, on a shit-ton of billboards, and in ads all over TV. Even my old man never got a sponsorship like that.
I laughed to myself when I remembered that I was ever worried about leaving college football. The facts were the facts: I'd been king in college, now the league was mine for the taking. I never got tired of hearing the sportscasters talk about how no one in the league had speed and agility like me.
I was on top. I planned to enjoy all the perks.
My gut said Chelsea could help me with that.
I found her in the crowd again and saw that she was about to head out to the patio. I grabbed two drinks off the bar, I didn't know what they even were. Beers, maybe? The guy who'd ordered them for himself took one look at my face—who I was—and let me take the glasses without a word. Smart man.
Trailing Chelsea into the cool desert air, I scanned the patio. It was easy to spot her; the section was pretty empty at this hour. She was busy looking out at the blueish bruise of a sky and clearly trying to pretend she didn't know I'd followed her.
When she caught my eye, I put on my trademark winning smile. The way she licked her lower lip made my cock twitch. She perked up as I approached; I mean that literally, I could see the faint outline of her nipples underneath her thin cotton t-shirt.
She spoke before I could, her tongue doing that thing girls can do—I don't know what it is, but it makes their voices thick and low and I swear you can feel the air vibrating from it. I sure could. “There you are, Hunter. I hear you’re going to be the new Croc-Cooler spokesman. That’s huge.” She said huge and looked right at the front of my jeans, lea
ning into me so her breasts brushed over my arm.
Fuck. She had more moves than I'd anticipated.
“That’s not all that’s huge,” I said, “But if you want to see something really big, I got you covered.”
"Yeah?" she teased, her teeth glinting white and bright. "Is it one of those beers?"
I'd almost forgotten the drinks. I handed one to her, clicking my glass on it with a laugh. "I was talking about something a little less cold."
There was white foam on her mouth after she swallowed. Slowly, so I could watch and imagine how it would feel, she wiped it off with her finger and sucked obscenely down to her knuckle. The "pop" noise when she pulled her finger out made me groan. “Hot stuff from the Croc-Cooler man?” she purred, squeezing my inner thigh. “I'm curious, now. Maybe you should show me.”
Blood flooded everywhere but my brain. “I was just about to go do that."
Chelsea scraped a nail over the top button of my jeans. I was tingling with icy-fire, ready for her to reach in and feel how rock-hard she'd gotten me so quick. And then Reese, that asshole, interrupted us.
“Hunter! Guess what, brother, I got you a surprise!”
What the hell? I asked myself, wondering what surprise could be worth halting my one-two-three path to nailing Chelsea. When I turned around and saw the strippers piling into the bar, I remembered why Reese was my best friend.
I turned toward Chelsea with a shrug. “Looks like I’m needed inside.”
The cheerleader pouted. “No fair.”
“I never said you couldn't come play, too.” I adjusted myself in my pants, then I took her hand and slid it in my pocket. She was close enough that I heard her breathe inward. "There's plenty to go around."
"I'll say," she whispered.
With a sharp smirk I led Chelsea back into the sports bar.
The next few hours passed in a whirl of dancing, drunken selfies, gallons of booze, and a crazy number of half-naked women. I lost the cheerleader somewhere in the mix but found good company with a lithe, dark-haired stripper named Arielle. After we danced a bit, I decided not to let the storeroom go to waste.
I grabbed Arielle’s hand and pulled her inside the cramped space. Her body lotion, a honey-flavored scent that was mixed with the sweetness of champagne, swarmed the tiny private bubble.
Dizzy with the kind of power that I was sure so few people ever felt, I leaned back on the wall. Kiss her, I thought through the haze. Feel her up, she wants you to. Before I could do any of those things, she was down on her knees.
The door jiggled and I was ready to kick Reese in the fucking face—but it wasn't his mug that peered around the door, it was Chelsea.
She looked over the scene, her eyes sharper than they should be for someone who'd been drinking with me all night. That should have worried me—it was so calculating, almost cunning.
The stripper's fingers yanking my zipper down removed my arguments.
“Can I join in?" Chelsea asked sweetly.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I groaned.
Arielle giggled as she reached up to take Chelsea’s hand, tugging the cheerleader down onto the floor beside her. I looked down on the greatest fucking sight in the history of man. Two girls, both ogling me adoringly with their mouths in teasing smiles.
Life was fucking amazing.
Then I blacked out.
A phone was ringing and I wanted to fucking smash it.
Whose phone was that? Mine? I had no idea, I just wanted it to shut up. Rolling over, I pressed a pillow into my face but it was no good. That sound pierced through my sleep-fog and demanded I wake up.
Son of a bitch. Why does my head feel like someone was doing construction inside of it? Gripping my skull, I struggled to recall last night. I knew there'd been strippers at the bar, and then more strippers at an actual strip club. On top of the girls, I remembered drinking tons and tons of alcohol.
Cracking my eyes, I winced in spite of the familiar surroundings. Amazingly, I'd made it home to my penthouse in Connecticut in one piece.
That was some bender.
Drinking in the Vegas heat will dehydrate you just as fast as an afternoon of sprints, jumping jacks, and squats will. My epic hangover had followed me all the way from sunny Nevada back to home sweet home in New Haven.
My phone was still making noise. That it, fine. I'll just have to murder the caller. Sitting up, I wished I could just go back to sleep and enjoy the dream I'd been having about a particularly curvy Vegas dancer who really knew how to use her mouth.
Stumbling around in my boxers, I spotted my phone vibrating nonstop on the nightstand. On the way there, my foot connected with something soft and very familiar.
Ah. Shit.
I wasn't just dreaming about that particularly curvy dancer. I’d actually brought her back to New Haven with me. Before I could piece this mess together, she sat up, arms arching into the air in a gigantic stretch. I definitely remembered those breasts. “Good morning, studbunny. Want to show me some more of your moves? I could learn a lot from you, Mr. Wide Receiver.” The sluggish lilt to her voice told me she was still tipsy from the night before.
“One sec... uh, sweetheart,” I said, unable to remember her name or if I ever learned it in the first place. “Let me just turn off my phone so we can have some peace and quiet.”
Stepping over my crumpled pants, I looked around and saw the dancer’s tiny dress hanging from a picture frame which had been knocked lopsided on the wall. My phone was still buzzing when I finally picked it up.
“Fuck,” I said, then I repeated it for good measure a few more times. It was my dad. I’d forgotten that I was supposed to meet my folks for lunch at their club, and I was pretty sure he was pissed about it. The nonstop ringing drove that point home. “Double fuck.” I sent the call to voicemail while I considered my options.
As much as I wanted to blow off my parents, I knew that that would be delaying the inevitable. I’d only regret it later.
“Come back to bed,” the mystery woman coaxed. She said bed, but she was still splayed out on the floor. My mood was too black to enjoy her slowly rocking hips as she worked at tempting me.
It was already noon. I was supposed to meet them right now. Well, I told myself, looking for a silver lining, even if I'd been on time, they would have found SOME reason to yell at me. I was twenty-five years old, you'd think they'd accept by now that they weren't my keepers.
“Why don’t you sleep in,” I told the dancer. “I’ll be back soon.”
My maid Jeannie would be coming by in a few hours, I could count on her to gently kick out my guest. She was well-practiced in that particular part of her job. She even gave my overnight guests smoothies, which I told myself had to take out some of the walk of shame sting.
Besides, everyone deserves to recuperate with a healthy snack after a night with me.
The dancer didn't bother to answer before falling back asleep. I decided to get my ass in gear and get this dreaded meeting over with. After I grabbed some clothes I headed down the hall toward my luxurious marble and bronze-fixtured bathroom.
I used to think money was overrated, but that was until I earned my first hundred thousand and put a steam shower in my penthouse. The inventor of the steam shower should get a fucking award and maybe even a ceremony in his honor.
Let the history books show that a steam shower after a hangover is a life-saving event.
I rubbed down with a bar of peppermint soap, giving myself a head massage as I washed my hair. It took most of the headache out of my skull.
I could have stayed forever in the steam and the minty air. It was hard to get out of the shower knowing what lay before me at the country club, but I knew I had to hustle. Plus, I didn’t want to be around when the dancer woke up again.
After toweling off, I put on a brand of underwear I had a sponsorship with, the stretchy boxer-brief kind that I’d been told by some star struck admirer made my package “look like a Christmas present.”
The new sponsorship was already going well though. I was enjoying the free cases of energy drinks that the C.C. people had sent over. Funny fact, but Croc-Cooler is great for handling killer hangovers.
I drank two of the cans before I even got in my car. The vitamins were great and all, but I doubted there was anything special in them to help me deal with my parents' bullshit . . .
But one could hope.
I thought when my contract had been renewed with the New Haven Hawks that my father would see my potential, that I wasn't a waste of space, and cut me some slack. Being named after the number one wide receiver in the league should have given me some credit.
I'd even made a huge donation to the local children’s hospital—something most guys my age would never consider. I might be a bit of a boozehound who likes to spend his time in the sheets, but I still have a heart. I still care.
You'd think with all of that, my parents would give me a break.
You'd be wrong.
Gunning the gas, I flew down the road with rising speed. Just thinking about how they focused on the negative in my life infuriated me. Whenever I’d pop up in the scandalous headline of some fucking ridiculous sports blog, I’d get a million phone calls blaming me for doing this or saying that.
Back when my dad was quarterback, everyone thought he was some kind of all-American hero. He might have convinced everyone else of that, but I knew who he really was. Even if I was going to make headlines for sleeping with a stripper or whatever, at least I was true to myself. I wasn't going to apologize for that or lie to everyone about what I was really about.
I pulled up to the valet stand to the delight of the teenager in the Haven Oaks Club polo waiting to open my door and take my car.
“Holy shit," he said, stepping to one side as his eyes bugged out. "Is this a McLaren? And I thought the Lambo was the coolest car I’d ever get to park!"