Dirty Player (The Dirty Suburbs Book 2)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I shake my head, clueless.

  “That thing on Instagram with my teammate’s sister?”

  I’m laughing now. “What teammate?” Before today, I’d never even heard of this guy. Apparently, he’s a big deal.

  He sighs in frustration, looking at me like I was just plopped down into the cosmos. “Do you live under a rock, woman?”

  Wow – his arrogance is unbelievable. “There are seven billion of us on the planet.” I say snarkily. “Sorry if I haven’t heard of you in particular.”

  He looks offended, as I intended him to be. I had to take the jerk down a few notches. With an ego that big, there’d be no space for my carryon in the Uber. But then, a devious smile tugs on his full lips. “Just figured you’d have taken a minute to Google the guy you’ll be spending the night with.” He walks on ahead of me, leaving me with a warm feeling between my thighs and a flood of inappropriate visuals.

  “I will not be spending the night with you,” I yell as I hurry to catch up with him. If he thinks that I’m some sort of damsel in distress who will just climb into his bed as a token of appreciation for his having come to the rescue, then he’s sorely mistaken.

  He completely ignores my protest, carrying on as if I hadn’t said a thing. “Phew. You haven’t Googled me. That means you haven’t seen the mug shot.” He shakes his head.

  My heart stutters. “The mug shot?”

  “The lighting really did me no favors.” He tosses me a solemn look over his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” I screech waving my hand to get his attention even though he’s walking up ahead of me. “What mug shot?” I feel completely light-headed right now. Who is this guy?

  He smirks at me, looking completely vindicated. “Just kidding, Doll Face.” He slips the phone into his pocket and yanks open the back door of a black Lincoln Navigator idling on the curb. “Come on. Our Uber awaits.”

  My knees wobble ever-so-slightly as I climb into the vehicle. The gorgeous but strange footballer throws a wink my way before opening the trunk and shoving my suitcase inside.

  There’s no turning back now, Faith.

  Wow – this has been a strange, fucking day.

  Chapter 4

  Faith

  I can feel his eyes on me throughout the entire ride.

  But he isn’t ‘checking me out’. He's analyzing me. Assessing me. Tearing me apart piece by piece. Even as his phone beeps and rings and chimes obnoxiously every few minutes, his attention stays fixed on me. And whatever his conclusion, I know it can’t be good. After all, I’m the random crazy chick he just valiantly rescued from the consequences of a series of poor life choices.

  I get busy with my phone in an attempt to avert the awkwardness of his heavy gaze. I start by deleting CheekyChat from my list of apps. (I never want to see that fucking app again.) Then, I text Sammie to let her know that I’m okay and that I’ll call her later. Finally, I aim my camera at the buildings and people we pass as the car swerves onto Wilshire Boulevard. But my people-watching and amateur photography do nothing to release me from my discomfort. This guy is really just gonna keep staring at me with no shame.

  I turn to him with a cautious glare. "What?" Using a sharp tone of voice with him probably isn’t a wise move given my current predicament – I’m pretty much at his mercy – but I’m irritated beyond reason and I so want this day to be over already.

  He doesn't flinch or look away. Instead he grins a maddening, one-sided grin. "You're not what I expected."

  I narrow my eyes at him. "What did you expect?"

  The only illumination pouring into the car comes from the various storefronts and traffic lights lining the street. Still, his iridescent gaze manages to catch slivers of light and glimmer in the dim car. His legs are spread wide, taking full advantage of the vehicle’s spacious interior and his arm is draped casually over the back of the seat. "Well, Keeland told me about the whole catfish situation and I just..." he shrugs as his voice trails off.

  His words bounce around in my brain and I try to read between the lines as we cruise up the winding hills providing a breathtaking view of downtown L.A.

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle as understanding hits me. "Wait – you expected me to be ugly, didn’t you? Because I was meeting someone from a dating website?"

  He wears a sheepish expression. "Well..."

  I can’t believe this guy. "Are you serious?"

  "C'mon, don’t be offended. To my surprise, you're pretty – really pretty, actually – you're funny, you seem sane, mostly. Why the hell are you trolling for dates online?"

  Wow – he just handed me a bouquet of compliments tied together with an insult. Still, my stupid heart flutters around in my chest.

  He thinks I’m pretty…

  Thankfully, I recover my senses quickly and set him straight. "This is the 21st century,” I snap. “People date online for all kinds of reasons. The least of which is because they're ugly." I can’t believe that I have to explain something so basic to this narrow-minded jerk.

  He cocks an eyebrow. "So what's your reason, Faith? Why are you ‘looking for love’ on the Internet?" He draws air-quotes around the words. It’s obvious that he’s fighting the urge to laugh.

  A quick glimpse into the rearview mirror reveals that our driver is choking back laughter of his own. I am so humiliated.

  I stare Maxwell in the face. "Because I live in Reyfield, for crying out loud." Enough said.

  Reyfield, Illinois is a charming, little suburb on the outskirts of Chicago. Its population is slowly inching toward five thousand, sixty percent of which are lethargic senior citizens. While, the idea of having a torrid affair with an older man maybe alluring in romance novels, the reality is far less appealing. (I know this firsthand because I work as the events coordinator for the seniors and kids at the local community center.) Trust me, loose dentures, rheumatoid arthritis and four-wheel mobility scooters do not a sexy love story make.

  Thirty-nine percent of the population is made up of young couples raising children. Yes, I get the occasional forlorn stare from the dejected-looking soccer dad piling groceries into the back of the family minivan while his wife is busy pulling gum from their six-year-old’s hair. But homewrecking is not charming under any circumstances.

  The remaining one percent of Reyfield’s population is single people my age. Of course, I’m not using official census data, so don’t quote me on any of this, but you get my point. Reyfield offers a very shallow pool for a girl to wade in. Hence, my online dating activities.

  Just as Maxwell is about to open his mouth again, the car rolls to a stop and the driver glances back at us. “We’re here.”

  I’m lost in a fog of indignation as I step out of the car and onto the semi-circle driveway outside of a stunning piece of architecture. The four-story glass and concrete building is tucked away on a quiet street in an upscale neighborhood and probably doesn’t house more than four or five condos. Maxwell deals with the driver before pulling my bag out of the trunk and leading me up the walkway to the front entrance. I trail wordlessly behind him, way too pissed off to make the requisite polite small talk about how beautiful the building is or how well-manicured the neighborhood appears. I refuse like this guy or anything about his life. And I definitely will not compliment him because it would go straight to that big head of his.

  We step onto an elevator with gleaming brushed aluminum panels and we ride to the top floor. I follow Maxwell through the only door at the end of the short corridor. He’s got the penthouse suite. Of course.

  He flicks a switch and a dim glow pours from the recessed lighting of the open-concept loft, bathing the masculine décor with warmth. Dark, low pile rugs cover the hardwood floors. Sparse, geometric furniture in wood and leather. Enormous, gleaming windows showing off his view of the city. And the place is clean. I mean spotless. I glance around discreetly, trying not to look too impressed.

  He tips his perfectly square jaw in the direction of the living area
. “You can have a seat, Faith.”

  I move wordlessly toward the couch and sit, watching him roll my suitcase into a room at the back of the loft. A moment later, he’s in the kitchenette, yanking open the stainless steel fridge.

  “Water, cranberry juice or coconut water?” he asks over his shoulder. “Or I’m sure you could use a glass of wine after the day you’ve had. I should have a bottle of red around here somewhere.” He pulls open the cabinet above the sink and produces a tall, dark bottle.

  Watching him bustle comfortably around his apartment suddenly has me feeling nervous. It’s all just beginning to register. I’m about to spend the night in this place with a perfect stranger. It’s not that I’m scared of him or anything like that. It’s just that I don’t know a thing about him and all of a sudden, I don’t know how to ‘be’. I set my hat on the couch next to me and fiddle with the bangles on my wrist.

  His movements slow down as he waits for my answer. “Red wine would be good,” I say sounding much more demure than intended. The softness in my voice seems to catch Maxwell off-guard, too. He turns and watches me. That assessing expression is back again, pleating his forehead. The energy between us has suddenly shifted, 180 degrees. I feel vulnerable and absolutely readable as I sit there, unable to break his gaze.

  After a beat, he blinks and looks toward his stove. “I’m not a cook by any stretch of the imagination. I’ll order some take-out. Does Vietnamese sound good to you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say with a small nod. He nods back then takes a goblet from the cabinet and pours me a drink of wine.

  “You’re not having any?” I ask as he stretches the glass out to me.

  He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve gotten into enough trouble with alcohol lately.” He screws the cork back onto the wine bottle as his gaze settles on my lips. “I’m trying to keep away from things that are no good for me.” He slowly pulls his bottom lip between his teeth before his eyes meet mine again.

  I swallow, very aware of the rapid rise and fall of my chest, the shallowness of my breaths, as we fall quiet again for a long beat.

  He speaks suddenly, almost startling me. “Come. Let me show you where you’ll sleep.” He walks halfway down the hall and yanks open a narrow door to reveal shelves of neatly-folded linen. He grabs a pile of fresh sheets.

  My pulse drumming in my throat, I leave my wine on the coffee table and rise up off of the couch. Now, I’m wondering what his bed looks like. And what he looks like in it.

  I shrug the thought out of my head but not before a trail of excitement skitters down my spine. I make a determined effort to focus on something else. After all, I’ve already decided not to like the jerk.

  As I follow him to the room where he put my suitcase earlier, I feel something itchy clinging to my thigh. An uncontrollable screech slips from my lips when I reach down and yank a hot pink sequin-covered thong from the back of my thigh. I drop it to the floor and jump back as if it’s a dangerous rattlesnake.

  Maxwell gapes at it. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Faith.” He scoops it up and hurries over to the garbage. “I had some company the other night. Things got…heated. She was wearing the matching bra.” He shakes his head angrily. “I bet she deliberately left the panties behind as a souvenir…some women…”

  I stare at him, frozen in absolute shock that I just peeled some random woman’s underwear off of my body within five minutes of getting here. I’m not usually a germophobe but the urge to disinfect my hands has never been so strong. I try to act cool about it but I can’t help but scrub my palms against the back of my shorts.

  He gazes at me earnestly. “I’m really sorry about that, Faith.” He actually looks mortified which surprises me because he’s been sporting that whole ‘unrepentant asshole’ vibe really well up until this point.

  “It’s – it’s okay…” I mumble, because what else can I say? I need somewhere to stay tonight. I have no other options.

  He gives me a stiff nod then turns and opens the door behind him. It’s a bedroom.

  It’s the bedroom.

  This place is a bachelor’s dream with its dark walls, gray scale furniture and pale wooden floors. A mess of soft, white sheets and pillows hang off of the enormous, low platform bed. Black and white photography decorates the walls. A comfortable-looking gray armchair sits facing the floor-length window and the view of Los Angeles from here is insane. Maxwell places the clean sheets on the bed. This thing has to be more than king-sized. Probably custom-made.

  “Sorry if it’s a bit messy,” he says apologetically as he stuffs his hands into his front pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I’ve been kind of too busy to tidy after myself over the past few days and the cleaning service only comes once a week.”

  I glance around the room in search of the mess he’s apologizing for. The unmade bed, the shirt strewn across the back of the chair and the empty glass on the bedside table actually add character to the place. It looks lived-in, warm and inviting. I can’t wait to climb into that bed. “It’s perfect,” I say graciously.

  “And you won’t have to worry about dirty panties in here,” he says playfully. “I never bring anyone into my bed.”

  I smile tightly. “Well, that’s consoling,” I mutter under my breath.

  We both stand awkwardly in front of each other. We’re total strangers, after all, and here we are, alone in this intimate space. I glance back out the door into the rest of the open-concept loft. That’s when a very important question occurs to me.

  “Wait – where will you sleep?” I ask.

  He shrugs a shoulder. “On the couch. I converted my spare bedroom into a home office a few months ago. A home office I never use.”

  Now, I feel bad. “I can sleep on the couch. It’s no problem. I really don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  He smiles. “No inconvenience at all. You’re my guest. You get the bed.” Damn, he’s being kind. Nice. It’s starting to look like my initial judgment of him may have been wrong. He does have a softer side to him.

  We’re both silent for a moment and that heavy awkwardness lingers in the air. It’s thick and pulsating with a fierce magnetism that I find myself fighting. Because letting my knees give way and stumbling helplessly into Maxwell’s sinewy arms would be a bit much at this point. Even though that’s exactly what my body wants to do.

  He speaks again. “Can I just apologize? For the things I said in the car. I was a total dick and I offended you. If you want to date men you meet online, that’s none of my business.”

  My cheeks prickle. I’m sure they’re turning red. “It’s okay,” I say quietly. I usually don’t get this flustered. I don’t understand why this man is having such an effect on me.

  His cellphone rings in the other room, saving us from another round of awkward but electric silence. “I’ve gotta go get that,” he announces. “I’m meeting up with a buddy at the gym. I’ll be gone for a few hours.”

  I nod slightly without saying a word. A part of me really doesn’t want him to leave. I want him to stick around and have dinner with me. I’m curious about him. I want to know more about him. But I’ve already inconvenienced the poor guy enough for one night. It’s not his job to babysit me and make sure that I’m well entertained.

  A few minutes later, Maxwell hurries out the door wearing a blue t-shirt spread taut by his wide shoulders and black sweats low on his hips. The delivery guy shows up shortly afterward with my pho soup with dumplings and spring rolls. He tells me that Maxwell paid the bill using his phone app when he placed the order. I eat alone, trying my best to swallow my immense disappointment all while scolding myself for being so damn needy.

  As I’m cleaning up the mess I made in the kitchen, I pull out my phone and dial Sammie’s number. She answers on the first ring.

  “Hey, I was starting to worry about you.”

  “You have good reason to,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What? Is Maxwell giving you a hard time already?” she laughs. “He just can�
��t help himself, can he?”

  I let the tension roll off of my shoulders as I lean against the edge of the counter and stare at the lights illuminating the city. “To be fair, he’s been a gracious host since we got to his place, but gosh, he can be infuriating.”

  “That’s how the Masters men do it, I guess,” my friend says. “But they’re incredibly charming. I’ve got to give you a head’s up; one minute, they’re irritating the heck out of you and the next minute they’re in you’re panties and you’re trying to figure out how they got there and why you never want it to end. Well, at least that’s how Keeland operates.”

  My eyes roll into my head. “Well, thanks for the warning but you don’t have to worry about me. Maxwell and I are so not going there. By tomorrow morning I’m gonna figure out a way to get home and I’m outta here.”