Dirty Player (The Dirty Suburbs Book 2)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I turn and face him. “Excuse me?” My chest is on fire and my fists ball up.

  “The coach and I went for a jog this morning,” Oscar spits out. “He told me what he and his wife walked in on in the hallway last night. It seems that your fiancée has just as much class as you do.”

  My jaw clenches but I won’t lose my cool. I take a few steps to my left, moving casually toward the coffee station. “Let me ask you something. How does Shellie feel about the fact that you spend all your free time sucking the coach’s dick?” I hurl the insult carelessly at him as I pour myself a cup of much-needed caffeine.

  Oscar’s beady eyes narrow in on my face. “You’re a fucking piece of shit, Masters,” he hisses through gritted teeth as he follows me. “Good thing you won't be my problem next year ‘cause Laureto was in Ohio last night, talking to Rocky Pfeiffer.”

  My blood runs cold. My hands falter and I spill the dark coffee onto the pristine white tablecloth. I do my best to maintain my poker face as I turn toward Oscar. “Laureto went to talk to Rocky Pfeiffer?” He’s just bullshitting. Trying to get me riled up. The team wouldn’t drop me for Rocky Pfeiffer. The kid is barely out of college. He’s completely green behind the ears...Right?

  It is true that Pfeiffer led his college team to a national championship victory this year. And it is true that he won the Heisman trophy just a few weeks ago. But I’m Maxwell Masters, for crying out loud. The Boomerangs won’t just get rid of me for some rookie. Not when I’m at the top of my game.

  I think that Oscar can see through my calm façade. A devilish smirk settles on his thin lips.

  “Yup,” he grins widely, flashing his yellow teeth. My fist itches to connect with his big, crooked nose. But I’ve got to keep my cool. He wants me to make a scene. I won’t do that. I won’t play his game.

  I move toward the bagel station and he’s still hot on my heels. “Didn’t Laureto go up there to play a few rounds of golf?” I say nonchalantly as I grab a poppy-seed bagel and take a huge bite.

  Oscar glares at me like I’m stupid. “Very funny, Masters. Very funny.” He steps closer, wearing that evil smirk. He’s almost daring me to sucker punch him. One more inch, asshole and you’ll be facedown in the punch bowl. “Maybe when you get dropped from the team, you can take your comedy act on the road. Because, trust me, Masters – you are getting dropped. The decision has been made.”

  He’s just fucking with me, right? Oscar Murphy is just trying to get under my skin. It isn’t too late to save my career, is it?

  Before I can say another word, he saunters away, snickering as he goes. I toss my half-eaten bagel into the cantaloupe platter. I don’t give a fuck. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

  Fuck him.

  I scrub my hand over my short hair. I’ve fucked it all up; everything that I’ve worked so hard for is now down the drain. My frivolous lifestyle has finally caught up with me.

  And Oscar Murphy is laughing his ass off as he rides off into the sunset on my gift horse with his fake-ass man-bun.

  I startle when I feel a small hand on my forearm. “Hey, you okay?” I glance behind me to find Faith standing there with a fruity-looking drink in her hand. She smiles at me when our eyes meet.

  For a second, I get lost in her, mesmerized by how soft and pretty she looks in that peach floral dress. Her little clutch is tucked carefully under her arm. Her long, golden curls fall over one shoulder. Every inch of her skin is smooth and sweet-smelling. I want to take her back to the room and fuck her. Just to forget about all my problems. To distract me from the world crumbling down all around me.

  She squeezes my arm, concern settling on her face. “Maxwell…Everything okay?” she asks again.

  I shake my head, snapping back to the present. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What?” Her eyebrows crease in the center, an air of surprise covering her face.

  I snatch her drink from her and gulp it all down. “Let’s get out of here,” I say as I set the empty glass on a table.

  “Hey! I was drinking that!” she protests.

  I ignore her complaints, taking her by the wrist and charging out of the room without so much as a glance in the direction of the table where Oscar is sitting with the coach, Laureto and some of the team’s players.

  “Maxwell, what the fuck? I didn’t even get to say bye to Shellie and her friends.” She feigns disappointment. “I didn’t even say goodbye to Mr. Laureto. I promised him another dance.” I hear the sarcasm in her tone.

  "Fuck Laureto. And fuck the Boomerangs," I grumble.

  She yanks out of my grip right there in the corridor and screeches to a stop. “What is going on, Maxwell?” she demands.

  My eyes burn with frustration as I turn to face her. “The decision’s been made, Faith. I’m going to be let go from the team. Laureto’s already met up with my replacement.”

  That statement stuns her into silence. After a long pause, she says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Sorry? Sorry does nothing to bring back the fifty-eight million dollars I just lost, Faith.”

  She swallows visibly. “Fifty…eight…million dollars?”

  I nod, my blood boiling. I want to kick something. I want to break something. I clench my fists, pacing to and fro. I get a strange look from a hotel bellman as he wheels an empty luggage cart past us.

  "You know what? You need to chill out,” Faith says in a firm voice.

  I look at her incredulously. “Chill out? That’s the best advice you’ve got for a man who just lost fifty-eight million dollars?”

  She gives me a resolute nod. “Yup. Chill out. Freaking out right outside of the room where your team’s management is having brunch won’t fix a thing. You need to chill.”

  She has a point. I can’t let the coach see me losing it right now. Throwing one of my trademark temper tantrums will only serve to confirm their decision to kick me to the curb. I may be off the team’s roster, but I won’t give them the satisfaction of being right about me. I look to Faith. “How do you suggest that I ‘chill out’?” I’m pacing again.

  She smiles with a little hop, excitement on her lips. I’d kiss her right now, just to get a taste of it. “You need an adventure," she announces brightly.

  Her phone rings at that moment. She holds an index finger up to me as she pulls it out of her clutch and stares down at it. For a second, her face registers pure shock, then it’s anger that colors her cheeks. And now, I’m distracted from my own problems because I want to know who the hell could cause such strife to mar her pretty face. Must be a man, I think as a ribbon on jealousy and protectiveness unexpectedly coil around my spine.

  She shakes her head purposefully as if to shrug off unpleasant thoughts and shoves the phone back into her purse. When her eyes meet mine a moment later, the distress has subsided and she’s plastered a smile onto her face. “As I was saying, you need an adventure.”

  I really, really, really want to be annoyed by her perkiness right now, but the mischief in her tone is luring me in. "What do you have in mind?"

  Her lips curl devilishly. "Let's go to Vegas!"

  Chapter 10

  Maxwell

  A mellow Bob Marley tune fills the cabin of the car as we coast along the I-215. Faith’s eyes are closed and her hands sway in the air, a wide smile on her lips as she vibes out.

  “This is nice,” she sighs, turning to me. The passengers’ side window is rolled down halfway and chilly air pours into my cherry red Porsche Panamera, picking up her buttery hair and tossing it into her face. “Good music, good vibes, nothing but the open road ahead of us. It’s a great escape.”

  I glance over at her and the contented glint in her eyes. She’s really zen for someone who, less than 72 hours ago, was blindsided by the stranger she was supposed to go on a romantic vacation with. From the look on her face, I can tell that ‘catfishgate’ is nothing but a distant memory to her. All she cares about is getting to Vegas, getting away. It’s strange. It’s alm
ost like she’d rather be anywhere but in her own life. “Tell me what’s going on in your world that has you so desperate to escape it.”

  She eyes me defensively. “What are you talking about? I’m not desperate to escape my world.”

  I lift a brow. “Oh really? You fly all the way across the country to spend Christmas with a man you don’t know instead of staying home with your family. You jump on the opportunity to go to Vegas on a whim. You lock yourself in a room with your battery operated boyfriend every chance you get…I’d say you’re trying to escape reality.”

  “Firstly, I don’t have a battery-operated boyfriend.”

  I stifle a smile. “Oh that’s right, you take matters into your own hands,” I say with levity. “Gotta respect that.” A two-seater hybrid honks angrily at me and I realize that I’ve slowly been drifting into the neighboring lane. I quickly adjust the wheel, swerving left.

  She rolls her eyes. “Secondly, as I already explained, there are no eligible bachelors in Reyfield. None. So yes, I met a man online, okay? And yes, he turned out to be a creep. So, just drop it!”

  I chuckle at how worked up she’s getting. I’ve definitely struck a nerve. That only reinforces my suspicion that Faith Monroe has got a ‘story’. "Wow – Petulant much?"

  “Me, Petulant? No you, you’re immature!” she rants. Her pointer finger jabs accusingly at the space between us. “You judge me for wanting to connect with someone on a deeper level. Meanwhile, you run around shooting sex tapes with drunk college girls and getting into bar fights like a freakin’ frat boy! You’re the shallowest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Don’t deflect,” I say, pretending that her comment didn’t sting. “Come on, be honest. Why do you need a man so badly that you’re willing to risk your safety and fly across the country just to be with some guy you met online?”

  "I don't need a man," Faith says defiantly, stomping her foot for dramatic effect.

  "Of course you don't," I say in a facetious tone. "You're just a masturbating-machine over there."

  “Y’know what? I won’t let you slut-shame me. Yes, I…I pleasure myself, okay? You have no right to make me feel ashamed of that.”

  I bite on my bottom lip. "Don't be embarrassed," I say magnanimously. "Your pussy is phenomenal. No wonder you're always touching it. If I had twenty-four, seven unrestricted access to it, I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off it either." I wink.

  But she doesn’t laugh. Her face is red and her chest is heaving angrily. Her mouth wears a tight frown. “You know what your problem is?” she asks heatedly. “You’re emotionally unsophisticated.”

  I scoff. “And you…you’re…you’re emotionally overindulgent.” I smirk, pleased with my retort.

  Her eyes glaze over as her shoulders slump in defeat. “At least I’m mature enough to admit that I’m looking for love,” she says softly, gazing out at the passing cars. “And I think that, on some level, you are, too."

  My heart flutters hard in my chest. I shake my head briskly to ward off such a silly idea. This girl doesn’t know me at all. “Definitely not looking for love,” I insist calmly. “When you go looking for love, all you find is trouble.”

  “Story of my life,” she whispers quietly, pressing her forehead to the cold window.

  I crossed the line again, getting under her skin for shits and giggles. Poking at her is fun but when she takes it this hard, it kind of makes me feel like a mean guy. I make a feeble attempt at explaining myself. “I’m sorry, Faith. I’m just trying to understand what would make a girl like you…”

  “What would make a girl like me, what? Date online? I already told you –” she sounds exasperated by our conversation.

  I interrupt her. “I’m trying to understand how come a girl like you isn’t happy.” I look over at her and our eyes connect for a nanosecond. There’s pain buried in there and I don’t know why I’m making it my business to unearth it.

  She looks away self-consciously, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “You wouldn’t understand,” she hocks resentfully. "Hell, you wouldn't know happily-ever-after if it came up to you and pissed on your leg!"

  I shake my head and chuckle lightly, taking my eyes off of her just long enough to switch lanes. "You're a fucking treasure, Faith Monroe," I say sarcastically.

  “And you, Maxwell Masters, are a fucking asshole!” she counters softly, clearly hurt by the things I’ve said to her.

  We sit quietly now. I can tell that she doesn’t want to talk to me. She’s pissed. Maybe she has every right to be. I’m just trying to figure out how to get back on her good side when the chiming of my phone fills the air.

  I glance down at my cup holder where my phone is sitting and quickly check out the caller ID. Karen. I’m not even sure which ‘Karen’ it is. I’ve fucked at least three ‘Karen’s in the past few months.

  I sigh heavily. Faith shakes her head bitterly and her focus returns to the road ahead of us.

  Traffic slows significantly as signs loom up ahead, informing us that we’re nearing our destination. I steal silent glimpses at her as I try to manoeuvre my way onto the crowded Las Vegas strip. A sea of flashing neon stretches for as far as the eye can see. But the light that illuminated her face as she sang that old Bob Marley song is long gone.

  And I feel like shit knowing that I’m the one who took it away.

  Chapter 11

  Maxwell

  After quickly checking in, we drop off our bags in our room and spend the next forty-five minutes walking listlessly through the bright, loud casino downstairs. Eventually, I find myself sitting on a stool, watching uninterestedly as Faith feeds coins to a shiny, evil slot machine.

  Neither of us is really feeling the whole Las Vegas vibe right now. I guess I really fucked up the atmosphere with that argument I picked with her back in the car. In my defense, I was feeling crappy about losing my football contract. I took it out on Faith. That was a jerk move, I know. I was just trying to find a way to feel better and picking on her seemed like an easy fix. But I regret doing that because now Faith feels like shit and I feel like shit for making her feel like shit.

  Shit!

  The slot machine swallows up twenty dollars pretty quickly but when I offer her more money to play with, she suggests that we go over to the nearby bar instead.

  Faith leans over the counter and calls out to the bartender. “Excuse me!” she chirps, waving a hand in the air. There aren’t many patrons here tonight. I’m not sure if it’s because of the Holidays or if it’s simply because this isn’t one of the more popular casinos on the strip. Either way, I’m glad that I’m not sitting elbow to elbow with a bunch of stereotypical hooting, hollering Las-Vegas-bachelor-party lunatics right now.

  When the barman looks away from the older couple he’s serving and his eyes fall on Faith, both corners of his lips arrow upward and his eyes burn with lust. “What can I get you?” he asks in an over-friendly Canadian accent, focusing all of his attention on her.

  She gazes down at the menu sitting on the bar. She presses her finger to her bottom lip as she studies the drink options. “I’m not quite sure,” she muses, shouting over the loud pop music animating the room. “My friend here just lost…” she turns to me with question marks in her eyes. “How much did you lose again?”

  “Fifty-eight million,” I say on the heels of a sigh. It still stings as much as the first time I said it out loud.

  The bartender manages to peel his gaze away from Faith’s cleavage for long enough to give me a questioning stare. “Sounds like a wild night,” he says glancing at the casino just beyond my shoulder.

  Faith and I exchange a look but neither of us bother to inform him that I didn’t just gamble away the GDP of a small country at the blackjack table tonight.

  The bartender’s hand covers Faith’s as he takes the menu from her. I feel a tightness in my chest as I observe the sleazy and totally unnecessary contact.

  Why the hell do I feel like punching him in the nose right no
w?

  “I recommend the Drunken Treasure Chest,” he says before licking his lips, eyes locked on Faith’s breasts again.

  “What’s that?” she asks innocently, completely unaware that she’s being eye-fucked by that damned pervert.

  “It’s twelve shots of my choice. I don’t label them. The fun part is trying to guess what each one is.” He leans over the counter, coming close to her, whispering like they got a running inside joke. “It’s sort of like getting one of the boxes with an assortment of chocolates. Except it’s alcohol. And no chocolate.” He licks his lips.

  Now, I know that Faith isn’t my woman and I have no right to get jealous that this dipshit is flirting with her but he’s just being downright disrespectful.

  I growl low under my breath. “Hey, you mind easing off of my fiancée?” I nod my head toward the diamond still sitting on her finger.