by Lane Hart
Perfect Spiral
A Playing Dirty Sports Romance
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2017 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Angela Snyder
Cover by Addendum Designs
http://addendumdesigns.com/
Cover photo from www.123rf.com
WARNING: THIS BOOK IS INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES 18+ ONLY. THE STORY CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE AND EXPLICIT SEX SCENES.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Prologue
Callie Clarke
Six months ago…
As soon as I make the final turn onto Saint Andrews Drive, I see my sister’s flashy red car parked at the curb of my now lonely cottage home. The anger that had started to sizzle out over the last few months comes roaring back to life like a scorching inferno. Her presence here is the equivalent of pressing play on the live-action horror show of her betrayal, one that I’ve tried desperately to forget but haven’t quite managed. Maybe I never will.
Climbing out of my much more conservative, metallic blue Corolla, I slam the door at the same time she rises from hers. The first word out of my mouth to her is “Leave!”
“Callie, wait. Just hear me out. Please?” she comes across the yard and begs, her normally sunny blonde hair dyed a depressing black.
“I don’t care if you’re starving or homeless or whatever other sad sob story you have. I will never give you another penny for you to spend on heroin,” I tell her before scurrying up the three steps of the front porch.
“I’m pregnant.”
Just two words, but they manage to steal my breath and weaken my knees. I have to reach for the stair rail to keep myself standing.
“I’ve been clean…since I found out. I swear,” my little sister sobs from behind me.
For a moment, I even feel a hint of sympathy starting to swirl in the pit of my stomach for her, despite my hate. Until the realization hits me.
“It’s his, isn’t it?” I spin around to ask her, tears burning my eyes, my emotions putting a stranglehold around my throat.
“No, Callie. It’s not John’s –”
I slap my hands over my ears because I can’t bear to hear another word following the name of the man who vowed to love me through sickness and in health and all the other bullshit. After eight years of marriage and seven years of trying to conceive, he couldn’t give me the one thing I’ve ever wanted. No, but he obviously had no problem knocking up my sister.
“Leave and don’t ever think of coming back here!” I scream at her through my sobs. “I’m done with you and your lies! I took you in more times than I can count when you had no other place to go. I spent thousands of dollars on rehab and attorneys to get you out of your self-destructive messes, and how did you repay me? By fucking my husband for a hit like the worthless drug whore you are!”
“John knew I was weak, that I couldn’t resist! This is all his fault. Please, Callie!” she pleads.
Turning back around, I climb the last step, unlock the front door and slam it closed for the final time on my sister begging in my front yard.
Chapter One
Quinton Dunn
I’m a pretty lucky son of a bitch.
Some people spend their entire lives searching for that one unique thing that they’re completely and utterly passionate about, their God-given purpose, if you will, and never actually succeed in finding it.
Me? Well, I found my calling when I was only seven years old.
Tall and lanky for my age even then thanks to my father’s giant German ancestors, I was assigned to the Roanoke Bulldog’s quarterback position. I didn’t understand the importance of this role on our pee wee team until our first game. We were down fourteen to nothing in the first seconds of the fourth quarter. The center hiked the ball to me at the forty-yard line and then, with a sudden moment of clarity, I realized that not only was I literally the only one holding the vital pigskin in my hands, but I was the only one holding it figuratively as well.
Okay, so I didn’t think about it exactly in those terms since I probably didn’t know what literally or figuratively meant until college. But I understood that win or lose, the outcome of our team rested on my shoulders as the quarterback. Sure, our little linemen had a job to do keeping the defense away from me; the receivers had to catch the balls I threw to them, and the running backs had to do their parts, but I was ultimately the lynchpin. Our success or failure was on me.
It was a lot of pressure to put on a seven year old, and my first inclination was to run screaming like my ass was on fire to the parking lot and toss my cookies. My second inclination was to do whatever I had to do to win. Thankfully, the second was much stronger. My competitiveness reared up and beat back the nervousness with a sledgehammer until there was no more fear or doubt. All that remained was a confidence in myself to utilize everything our team had been practicing and get the job done.
The coaches and my father told me I had an incredibly powerful arm. I was a lot bigger and stronger than all the other kids my age, standing half a head taller than most. Looking over the top of my opponents’ helmets, their backs all to the goal posts, the end zone was in my sights alone, mine for the taking.
From that moment on in the game, my throws were dead accurate, perfect spirals. Our receivers were tough and fast. And the Hawks were no match for the Bulldogs that day.
I may have been young and foolish; hell, I’m still young and foolish, but even back then I was wise enough to know without a doubt that nothing would ever feel as magnificent as leading my team to a win. The admiration, the cheers, and praise of my performance is still exhilarating, addicting even. Which is why I work my ass off t
o be the best damn quarterback I can be for my team.
My only problem as the starting quarterback for the Wilmington Wildcats is that my professional success now comes with even greater levels of anxiety before I take the field.
Tomorrow is the first real game of my fourth season playing professional football, and already my palms are sweating, and my heart is ricocheting around in my chest like a pinball game thanks to the nervousness. As much as I love to win, my position as the leader of my team is a double-edged sword. If we lose, it’s all on me. And when I fail, I let down my parents, my fifty-two teammates, the dozens of coaches and management staff, and the millions of fans. That’s why I absolutely abhor losing and why I had to chug half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol half an hour ago before I could eat dinner.
“Do you think we should just shave our heads?” Lathan Savage asks me, interrupting my struggle to keep down the steak we grilled out on my oceanfront deck before turning on the State versus East Carolina game in my living room.
Blinking in confusion at my best friend and tight end, I try to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about. When he runs his fingers through his blond Mohawk that’s identical to my jet black one thanks to a bet we both lost a few weeks ago, understanding finally dawns.
“You know, just take it all off and start over from scratch?” he clarifies.
“I’m not shaving my fucking head,” I tell him, reaching up to stroke the velvety sides of my new do. “My melon is too lumpy for that shit. The rest of our hair will grow back soon,” I assure him. While I always cut my hair as soon as it starts curling around my ears, Lathan’s was nearly brushing his shoulders when our teammates chopped it off, so he had a lot more of it to miss.
“I think I might shave all mine, you know, since my mom’s starting to lose her hair again,” he says sadly while keeping his eyes on the television.
Dammit.
I am such an insensitive asshole. Here I am having a pity party about winning a freaking football game tomorrow while Lathan’s over there wondering if his mom will live through Christmas. I should’ve realized he wasn’t thinking about shaving his head for vanity's sake, but I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, especially when my head is so incredibly far up my own ass. Lathan’s mom just started going through chemo and radiation again after the cancer in her kidney’s spread to her pancreas.
“I’m sorry, man,” I tell Lathan sincerely, meaning for my ignorance and for what he’s going through. “How’s she doing?”
“From bad to worse,” he answers. “At least there’s a game tomorrow to give me a distraction.”
As if on cue, like a gift-wrapped present sent from the good Lord above, my doorbell rings.
“How about a distraction tonight?” I ask Lathan as I get to my feet. “I don’t know who it is, but I’m sure she has hot friends.”
“Seriously? Another booty call?” he scoffs with an eye roll.
“I can’t help it if the ladies always come back wanting more,” I argue.
It’s no secret that I thoroughly enjoy sex or that I’ve had a lot of lovers. In fact, I don’t even have to try to get a girl into my bed anymore. Like the sun rising over the ocean each morning, it just happens naturally. Which is why I recently started playing a little game I like to call “Cheesy, Sleazy and Easy.” Lately, when a woman comes on to me, I try and break out the stupidest, most arrogant pickup lines that come to my mind to repulse them, to encourage a slap to my face rather than have them bend over and beg me to slap their asses. So far I’m oh-for-forty-five.
Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?
If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put ‘u’ and ‘i’ together.
Well, here I am; what are your other two wishes?
Your lips look so lonely. Would they like to meet mine?
No shit, those are just a few horrible examples that would never work for any other man, but they, unfortunately, worked for me. So it sucks that I’ve never won a round and been turned down. I don’t like losing, especially to my own stupid self.
I’m not a complete dumbass. I know that the women who sleep with me are only using me, whether for my money, fame, or good looks. I’m simply an object to be acquired. They all have ulterior motives. Why else would they want to fuck me simply because of my name? I can be an enormous asshole or a complete sleazeball, and they’ll still lead me away by my dick and do all manner of naughty things to me.
It’s depressing really, not to have anyone just want me for me. Take away my millions, my superstar career, fancy cars and beach mansion, and I’m just a decent-looking guy of immense stature and below average intelligence.
But I do have millions, and I am a superstar, so, for now, I guess I’ll have to endure the meaningless fucks until I find a woman who refuses my sexiest pickup lines, calls me out for being an asshole, and finally presents me with a worthy challenge. There’s no fun in having a slut throw herself down and spread her legs for me without making me work for it. I want the thrill of wearing a stubborn woman down, one who fights me tooth and nail while I slowly chip away at her resistance until she finally submits.
“You’re disgusting, and one day your skanky ways are gonna catch up to you,” Lathan calls out.
He’s likely right, but there’s a ginormous chasm between my playboy ways and his celibacy, though. Instead of agreeing with him, I head to the door and simply reply over my shoulder with, “I think it’s time for you to lose the V-card, man. You’re almost thirty.”
“No, I’m not! I’m only twenty-four,” he calls back.
“Like that’s any better,” I mutter with a shake of my head.
If nothing else, a quick fuck is a helluva good distraction to take my mind off the anxiety before a game or the depressing loss afterward. Lathan sure as shit could use a distraction with everything in his life he’s currently dealing with. I get that he has self-esteem issues or whatever from his fat camp days, but that’s all in the past. I’m not sure how he hasn’t gone apeshit from bottling up the natural urges for this long. Men need to get laid, or they go crazy. I’m cranky if I go more than a week without a release, especially with all the stress during football season.
I don’t even have to make booty calls, they just appear like magic on my doorstep. And tonight’s unexpected guest will be a welcome relief to my oncoming panic attack.
As I approach the mostly glass front door, I don’t see any lust-filled beauties waiting for me on the other side, so I unlock it and open it wide in welcome, greeting tonight’s surprise romp before she disappears.
Unfortunately, there’s not a woman waiting for me with open arms.
No. Instead, there’s only a seat-looking thing on the cement stoop with a tiny, snoozing baby inside, next to a black bag. I glance back out over the yard and find the driveway empty except for Lathan’s truck. There are no cars coming or going on the silent street either.
Huh. Someone just rang the doorbell, so they have to be close by, maybe on foot.
I step outside barefoot in my jeans and gray Wildcats tee and walk to each end of the porch looking for who the hell is fucking with me, but there’s not a soul in sight.
Okay, so this must be one helluva prank. Lathan’s always harping about my manwhorish ways, just as he was only seconds ago, so he’s obviously the one fucking with me tonight.
Leaving the door wide open, I stomp back into the living room and ask him with my hands on my hips, “What did you do, man? Borrow someone’s baby to screw with me? Ha-ha. Hilarious. Now tell them to come back and pick it up.”
Rather than bust out laughing, Lathan simply stares at me silently for several long moments. “Huh?” he finally asks.
“Bravo,” I tell him with a slow clap of my hands. “Nice touch with the poker face and all, but seriously, dude, someone needs to come get their damn baby. It’s getting chilly outside.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Quinn?” Lathan asks.
I heave a heavy sigh. “Are you fucki
ng with me right now?”
“I swear I don’t even know what the fuck I would be fucking with you about,” Lathan replies, getting to his feet. “Who was at the door?”
“A baby.”
“A babe? Do you need me to go ahead and leave then?” he asks. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna lose my virginity to some random jersey chaser.”
“No, man. A bay-bee. Baby.”
With a creased forehead, Lathan walks past me and toward the open front door. I follow behind him.
“Holy shit! There’s, like, a baby out here!” he turns around and exclaims while pointing back at the kid. That’s when I start to believe he didn’t set me up. “Why is there a baby on your porch?”
“No clue. I thought you were fucking with me,” I tell Lathan.
“Shh! Watch your mouth!” he scolds me, holding a finger to his lips. “You can’t say fucking around a baby.”
“Um, dude, you just said fucking in front of the baby,” I point out.
“Shit,” he mutters, running his fingers over his Mohawk. “Dammit, I probably shouldn’t say shit either.”
“Or dammit,” I opine with a sigh.
“Why is there a baby on your porch?” he asks again.
“Now you sound like a broken record,” I tell him, throwing my hands up in the air with exasperation. “I have no clue why there’s a baby here!”
“Be quiet before you wake it up,” Lathan steps back inside the house and lowers his voice to warn me softly.
“Forget waking it up. Should we bring it inside?” I ask.
“I guess,” he answers with a shrug. “We definitely can’t leave it out there.”
“Okay then, pick it up.”
“Nuh-uh. You pick it up,” Lathan argues, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It’s on your porch!”
“Fine,” I grumble.
Marching over, I bend down and lift the bottom of the seat in my arms and carry it into the living room where I place it in the middle of the hardwood floor.
