A while later, I carry Jayden to his room and lay him gently in his bed. Rashida watches as I tuck him in and kiss him softly on his forehead, then she takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom.
“Stay with me tonight,” she says. “I don’t want this day to end.”
I can’t argue with that logic.
We cuddle in bed, with no intention of having sex since I’m sure she’s still sore from this afternoon’s lengthy session at my house. After we exchange a long and passionate kiss, though, my dick acts with a mind of its own and stiffens, poking Rashida.
“Just ignore that,” I tell her.
Her hand slips into the front of my boxer briefs and her fingers wrap around me.
“This is impossible to ignore, Marcus,” she purrs.
Seconds later her mouth is on me as she tugs my underwear down to my knees. It’s the most leisurely blowjob ever, with Rashida taking her time to slowly bring me closer and closer to orgasm. I’d forgotten how incredibly talented she is at this, but am reminded every time her lips slide all the way down my shaft until there’s nothing left showing. I practically lose my mind when she cups my balls, and the tremendous orgasm I have in her mouth leaves me trembling. Rashida gradually slips her lips off, then looks at me and smiles.
“I sure hope you liked that,” she says, her eyes half-closed, “because I could get used to doing this every night before falling asleep.”
She rejoins me on the pillow and gives me one last kiss. “Goodnight, baby,” she whispers, then closes her eyes.
I lie awake for some time afterward, looking at her beautiful face and wondering what my mom is eventually going to think about being a grandmother.
I’m roused from a blissful sleep early the following morning by my phone buzzing constantly. Luckily, Rashida is soundly asleep next to me, her arm wrapped around my waist and those luscious tits pressed against my ribs. I carefully extricate myself without waking her, then retrieve the phone to see it’s filled with texts and voicemail messages, no doubt due to last night’s SNL sketch.
I also find four texts and two voicemails from Mason, telling me to call him as soon as I’m awake. I slip on my workout pants and step out onto the balcony barefoot and shirtless to return the call. The Southern California morning is warm and smells of star jasmine.
“Marcus!” Mason shouts. “Where have you been?”
I quietly tell him that Rashida and I made up and that I spent the night at her place.
“Awesome. Happy for you. Really. Now let me get you caught up on what’s happening.” He’s practically breathless. “First, Saturday Night Live did a sketch about— “
“I saw it,” I interrupt. “Pretty funny.”
“Yeah, well that’s not the extent of it. Between that sketch and the video of your comments at the end of the presser, you’re all over social media right now. You’ve exploded on Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Instagram—all of them, simultaneously.”
“Whoa,” is all I can manage.
“That’s right, ‘whoa.’ I hope you don’t have plans for this afternoon, because you and Claire and I are meeting in my office at noon with the team from Restaro to plan how to best take advantage of this windfall of good publicity. People suddenly like you, Marcus, and we need to be sure that sticks.”
I tell Mason I’ll be there at noon, then hang up and marvel at this weird turn of events. We’re holding an emergency meeting on a Sunday because I was a Saturday Night Live sketch. That’s utterly bizarre.
After rejoining Rashida in bed and nuzzling her awake, I let her know about the meeting.
“Jayden will be awake any minute,” she says. “Let’s get dressed and go to the living room. We need to ease him into this.” She looks up and smiles. “Or whatever arrangement we decide on.”
Jayden walks into the living room a short while later and breaks into a sleepy-eyed smile when he sees me.
“Good morning, Little Man,” I say.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asks.
I look at Rashida, then back at her son. “Anything you want, buddy.”
Half an hour later, I park the Lambo in front of IHOP. Although Jayden thinks the car looks like a spaceship, there’s no backseat and he had to sit on Rashida’s lap on the drive over. I may have to rethink my wheels.
The three of us walk into the restaurant and request a table. Heads turn as the hostess walks us across the room, then the diners begin to break out in applause until the whole restaurant is clapping. I usually get a reaction when I’m in public in LA, but nothing like this. Enough people have obviously seen the press conference video or the SNL sketch and now they’re congratulating me for getting my girl back. I smile and point at Rashida, and she blushes in embarrassment. She’s not used to this kind of attention, but something tells me that’s going to change quickly. Jayden, on the other hand, loves it and is laughing his little butt off by the time we’re seated.
When all that remains of breakfast are empty syrupy plates, Jayden grins and says, “Marcus, can we eat breakfast at IHOP every day?”
I laugh, then realize he’s already making the leap that I’ll be around and involved in his life from this point forward. Rashida must be having that same thought, because she looks at me apologetically. I smile at her, then answer Jayden.
“I’m afraid not,” I say. “Sometimes we might have to go to McDonald’s.”
The grin I get in return convinces me that I need be a part of his young man’s life.
A big part.
The meeting at Leviathan lasts for a couple of hours as we discuss strategy. We spend some time looking at social media’s reaction to my speech to Rashida. For the most part, guys seem to be making fun of me, while women are swooning over my “impossibly romantic” gesture. And to be honest, quite a few guys are giving me props for manning up and doing whatever it took to get my woman back. Jennifer and Andy from Restaro point out that nearly every instance is positive. Even people who are making fun of me seem to think I’m a romantic goofball.
Everyone agrees that we should go all-in on social media right now. Restaro insists I route any posts or updates through them for the time being so they can make sure there are no missteps at this crucial juncture. I’m fine with that because it takes the pressure off me to make perfect decisions every time.
Claire says that Jimmy Kimmel called personally and wants me back on his show, and I also got calls from the talent coordinators for Ellen, Fallon, Conan, Colbert, and just about everyone else. Andy thinks I should only do selective appearances so I don’t get oversaturated and turn the market against me. We decide on a return slot on Kimmel and my first appearance on Ellen for now, then we’ll reassess after they get new data later this week. They’ve also already heard from the marketing department at Coca Cola with the idea of doing a Coke commercial based on the Nike press conference.
Andy concludes the meeting by saying, “Marcus, I hope you’re ready for all this, because you’re going to be riding a rocket for a while. When something like this goes viral, you just hold on tight and stay with it as long as you can.”
I return home and spend Sunday night alone there because Rashida and I both decided we needed a night apart to decompress from the whirlwind of activity. We make it until bedtime before we both cave in and end up spending three hours on the phone.
First thing Monday morning, I get a call from Claire. Apparently, my Q-Rating shot up an unheard-of fifteen points over the weekend because of the publicity surrounding the press conference.
“A fifteen-point uptick is almost unprecedented,” she says. “It’s only happened a half dozen times since they started using metrics to track celebrity likability in the mid-sixties. Best of all, this means the one-hundred-million dollar Nike contract you signed Friday afternoon at the Sunset Grand is now worth a hundred and fifty million, and you’re only three Q points away hitting another incentive bonus. That would put you at two-hundred-million dollars over ten years. Marcus, that’s a rarefied, elite lev
el for athlete endorsements.”
“Is Nike upset about it?” I ask. It’s hard to imagine they’d be happy at the idea of being on the hook for that much additional money after only three days.
“Upset? They’re ecstatic! They’ll get enough publicity from this to more than offset your contract. Congratulations, Marcus, you’re suddenly a marketing dream come true.”
The rocket ride eventually slows down a month later, but it doesn’t seem to want to end completely. Almost overnight I’ve become a sought-after pitchman, the face of masculine romantic gestures, and am booking ads for everyone from jewelry chains to florists. I’ve even got a guest appearance on a sitcom lined up, and they weren’t at all concerned whether I can even act. Restaro keeps a tight rein on things, making sure I don’t do so much that people start to get annoyed when they see me.
The new NBA season is about to start, and I marvel at how much my life has changed since last season. Rashida and I are taking things slowly, but we both sense that this relationship is the real deal. I’m treating it very seriously and am totally committed to her and Jayden. I’ll admits it’s a struggle sometimes to avoid the temptations that come with being a high-profile athlete, but I continually remind himself of how much I stand to lose if I succumb. Not having Rashida and Jayden in my life would be devastating.
I wish I could say I’m never tempted, but the fact is I’m tempted constantly. I just refuse to give in these days. Mind over matter, my brain controlling my dick instead of vice versa.
Despite my former ways as someone who slept with many, many women and enjoyed every minute of it, I’m not surprised at how fulfilling it has been to have only one woman in my bed. Rashida is the most amazing person I’ve ever known and holds me accountable in a way nobody else ever has, not even my own mother. Our time together is sublime and ridiculously fun. And of course, Rashida is so incredible in bed that I don’t miss the lesser-talented women I used to hook up with.
The thing that does surprise me, though, is how much pure joy I get from being a father figure to Jayden. I love that little guy as much as if he were my own son and am already taking pride in helping to shape him the way my father helped shape me. His basketball skills need a lot of work, but we have plenty of time for that. He’s a good kid with a great heart and I’m ecstatic to be a part of his life now.
One thing that has caught me off-guard is the reaction I got from the Bad Boys Club when I told them that Rashida and I were serious: None of them gave me any shit about it. Not one bit, although Link was silent and did a lot of head-shaking. Since then, he’s come around and now says, “Whatever makes you happy.” Coming from Link, that’s a ringing endorsement. Drake and Mason were thrilled for me, as were Allie and Claire. They all like Rashida and she already fits in with the other women as if they’ve been friends for years.
It all comes back to Rashida, who pushed me to become a man right at the point when I most needed to. It worked, too, though it took a few months for her words to take root. No doubt the death of my father made me more receptive to listening to her. She was right. It was time for me to grow up.
Because of Rashida’s influence and the c5hanges I fought hard to make over the summer, I can say with confidence that at age twenty-six, I’ve finally become a man, someone my father would be proud of.
I know, because I say that from the perspective of someone who is now practically a father himself.
More in this series
The Hollywood Bad Boys Club
is a four-part series.
Available now
Book 1: Drake
Book 2: Mason
Book 3: Marcus
Coming soon
Book 4: Link
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Hollywood Bad Boys Club, Book 3: Marcus
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“Sleeping With the Enemy” - Free Sample
Enjoy this free sample from Alexis Adaire’s thrilling full-length erotic romance-suspense novel, Sleeping With the Enemy…
Chapter 1
After only twenty minutes, I already knew this Dante guy wasn’t boyfriend material. Perfect — I only needed him for a couple of hours of sex anyway.
Little did I know at the time that Dante Gutierrez would irrevocably change my future, far beyond the next few hours. Hell, I’d just met him. In retrospect, it’s bizarre how one tiny decision, made for reasons having to do purely with physical pleasure, ended up altering the trajectory of my entire life. At that moment, though, the only future I was thinking about was the rest of my night, which held a small amount of promise if I could get Dante to invite me back to his place for a bit of naked fun.
“So what do you do for a living, Anna?” He leaned toward me on his bar stool, probing me with his piercing blue eyes, violating me with the obviously nasty thoughts percolating just behind them.
His tanned face and short razor stubble made those baby blues stand out. He had a dark complexion and longish dark brown hair that he had to keep brushing back from his face, a move I paradoxically found both ridiculous and sexy. I’d met Dante over a game of pool, which I suspected he let me win when he scratched on the eight-ball.
“I’m with the Secret Service,” I said, arching an eyebrow playfully. “I protect the president.”
Dante laughed skeptically and raised his beer bottle, clinking it against mine. “Here’s to secrets then,” he said.
He might not have found it so funny if he’d known how close that was to the truth. I actually was a government agent, kind of. As a member of the CIA’s Office of Technical Service I helped support the exciting careers of international spies. My duties included providing “physical cover” for agents on assignments — wigs, makeup, clothing. A select few people in OTS were asked to travel overseas where an on-site disguise technician was needed to give in-field assistance to agents. I, however, was among the ninety-five percent of CIA employees chained to a desk at headquarters in Langley, an unincorporated area of McLean, Virginia, across the Potomac from Washington, DC.
I compensated for that by finding adventure and excitement elsewhere, like looking for a one-night stand on a Friday night at Dave’s Hardtail, a dive bar outside of Leesburg, VA. The bar was half an hour from my home in Reston — far enough so that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Besides, the place catered mostly to bikers, so there was little chance anyone from the office would be there.
I had driven out right after work and stopped at a gas station along the way to change, slipping out of my slacks and button-front blouse into something more suitable for a biker bar. Sitting at the bar with Dante, my curves pushed at the seams of the tight Levi’s and my big now-braless breasts stood out in the black Harley tank top.
“How about you?” I asked. “What kind of work do you do?”
I continued to look him over — a habit I picked up from my job, which was to make sure agents blended in with the locals. He was gorgeous, possibly Latino. Something was amiss, though; his fingernails were finely manicured, his black leather boots a little too pristine. I supposed he could be a lobbyist slumming it, but something seemed fishy. Or maybe it was just my CIA training running amok. Regardless, my curiosity was piqued.
“I’m an attorney,” Dante replied.
“Ooh, a lawyer — how exciting.” I rolled my eyes facetiously. “Come on, lie if you have to. Impress me.”
His black jeans sat snugly on his fit frame. Close to forty years old, I guessed. A dark gray T-shirt and a suspiciously distressed black leather vest completed the look. He had a large black tattoo on his right bicep, though I couldn’t make out the design in the dim light of the bar.
“I really am an attorney. I’m also a hit
man for a Mexican drug cartel.”
Now I was the one who laughed. Then I saw in his eyes that he wasn’t completely lying. Exaggerating, maybe, but not totally straying from the truth. This guy was into something crooked, I could smell it on him.
And here’s the weird thing: I was turned on by it.
For years I had listened to stories about undercover CIA agents finding ways to extract vital information from unsuspecting bad guys. While Dante spoke, I began to see an opportunity to get in on the action. If he were indeed up to something, I wanted to be the one who brought him down. I would have gone home with him just for the anonymous sex, but this new instinct about him emboldened me to make sure it happened.
A normal woman might have been scared at the idea of going home with this stranger, but growing up with an Army sniper for a dad had left me with an adventurous streak that occasionally got me in trouble when I was a teen. Despite my predilection for one-night stands, my life had been far too boring in recent years. Not only did I feel confident I could handle this situation, I desperately needed the thrill.
As we continued our light flirting, I imagined Dante’s nakedness against mine. It was almost as if I could feel the sense of danger between my legs. Working my way into that position would undoubtedly help me learn more about him.
“I don’t believe you’re a hitman,” I said. Exaggerating my buzz, I leaned into Dante and said, “Let’s see if you kiss like one.”
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 3: Marcus Page 22
