by Mona Cox
“Now, cheer up,” she grins, softly pressing the tip of her foot over my crotch. My heart picks up the pace in a hurry, making my cock harden before you can even spell my name.
“That helps,” I grin back at her, already imagining all the dirty things I’ll do to her once we get back to my place. Fuck, if she keeps teasing me like this we might not even get home; I’ll just get a room across the street and fuck her silly until we both collapse from exhaustion.
“What do you say we get out of here?” I whisper, throwing caution to the wind and wanting to turn my thoughts from just now into a reality.
“I’d say that’s a great idea,” she whispers right back at me, pressing harder against my aching cock before finally taking her foot off from between my legs. I leave some money on the table, large tip and all, and then start walking across the restaurant dining-room floor before remembering what’s waiting for us at the door—all these soulless journalists.
“Maybe we should ask about using a service door,” I tell Fiona.
“Nonsense,” she replies in a heartbeat, taking my arm in hers and strutting out of the restaurant with her chin held high. I narrow my eyes into slits as the bright flash of the cameras explodes around us, the cool air of New York cutting through my shirt.
“Danny--”
“Fiona--”
“How’s your night?”
“Enjoyed dinner?”
“Marriage?”
“Baby?”
Jesus fucking Christ, what’s wrong with these people? Take a fucking chill pill, everyone, I almost feel like saying.
“Thank you, everyone,” Fiona chirps merrily, beaming a smile at the journalists as they surround us like a pack of blood hungry wolves. Fuck, I just want to get out of here. “We’re enjoying our night, yes, and --”
“Fiona, how’s it like to be credited for Manning’s success as a quarterback?” A gangly guy with greasy hair and horn-rimmed glasses asks her, raising his voice above all others and shoving a recorder close to her face.
“Oh, I think it’s all been a bit exaggerated, you know? Danny is his own man, and his success belongs only to him. That said, I do my best to keep him in good spirits before a game.”
“What kind of things do you talk about before a game?” The guy continues, and the other journalists just fall in line, soaking in every word coming out of Fiona’s mouth. She’s the fucking star here, not me, that’s for sure. These guys would crown her Queen of the United States if they could.
“I remind him of how hard he works, of course, and I might give him a little incentive if he pulls a win, which he always does,” she chuckles, her voice as bright as blue skies. She then does a little wink, and you can tell that they’re loving it. Some are just jotting down everything she says in small yellow notepads, others are clicking away with their cameras, and one seems on the verge of asking for a selfie with her.
I’ve never seen the media fall in love so quickly with one person, and that has me worried: when that love starts dying down, Fiona’s going to be in for a rude awakening. I just hope whatever happens doesn’t come between us… because that’s usually how things go.
But, fuck, as far as I know that might not even happen. “Let’s get out of here, babe,” I whisper, leaning into her and flashing a wide smile at the cameras. Somehow, they all part to let us through and, by the time we get inside the Aston, there’s only one thing I’m thinking about: getting her naked.
15
Fiona
Two months.
That’s how much time has passed since I’ve met Danny. It’s been a wild ride too. It’s funny how much your life can change in such a short amount of time. I went from being a complete unknown to becoming the constant focus of the all-watching eye of the American media.
But forget about that; these two months have been the best of my life, and that has nothing to do with the way the media has been treating me. Do you know how amazing it is to have a man like Danny by my side? And no, I’m not talking about the fact that he’s a famous, rich athlete. As far as I’m concerned he could be a rugged farmer from a rural town in the middle of America and I would've fallen for him all the same. How could I not? He’s the perfect blend of bad boy and prince charming. And he has a gigantic cock, which helps too, of course.
Yeah, let’s not get started on the sex; words pale when describing how good he is. I thought that marathon sex sessions were a thing out of steamy books but, oh, was I wrong! It’s a miracle I’ve been managing to get any sleep and stay on top of everything going on in my life. It’s not easy clearing three hours on your schedule (and that’s daily!) for sex when you’re trying to prove your worth as an intern at such a competitive firm such as Price Coopers. Not that I’m complaining, far from that.
Eight.
That’s how many games Danny has won since we’ve started dating. And when I say ‘won’, what I really mean is that he blew everyone out of the water. Do you want to know how many touchdown passes he managed during the regular season? 49—which, for the non-football fans among you, means that he’s close to breaking the record for most touchdown passes during a season. There are just two games to go until the playoffs start, and the Nailers have already secured their place there. The hype around the team grew so much that I figured the league was already engraving the Nailers’ name on the trophy.
Seventeen.
That’s the amount of times I’ve been invited for an interview on live TV. You’ve probably seen me already on one of those talk shows. Why the media took such an interest in me, I have no idea, but I rode that wave as hard as I could. The Princess of the League, some newspapers started calling me. It was weird at first, seeing my face plastered on the cover of a bunch of magazines, but I grew accustomed to all that.
My Instagram account blew up from a measly 150 subscribers to more than a million in just a few weeks. Yeah, one million; how crazy is that? I never thought people would be that interested in seeing what I had for breakfast, especially taking into account that it’s usually just cereal and a piece of toast. I never thought I’d have so many notifications on my cellphone that it would crash. I actually had to buy a new one so that I could use Facebook and Instagram without it going batshit crazy every time I posted a new photo.
I also got some proposals to do a few modeling gigs, but so far I’ve turned them all down. I don’t want to get distracted with all the fame and blow the opportunity I fought so hard for at Price Coopers. I might be turning into some kind of celebrity, but I will never let that get to my head, or has that already happened? Because, I admit, I might've been somewhat unprepared to deal with all this. Why? Well…
One.
Danny lost just one game and the dark side of the media reared its ugly head. That happened two days ago; we were spotted leaving a restaurant a bit late (not scandalously late, mind you), and when Danny had a terrible game the next day, everyone started piling up on me. I went from savior to being the devil’s spawn in a matter of hours.
Right now I’m holed up in his apartment, my eyes puffy and swollen from all the crying I’ve done. Danny left a few hours ago for his morning workout and, since it’s Saturday, I sat down on his couch and propped my laptop up; I was in for a surprise.
I’m still reading through all the articles and thousands of Facebook posts made about me. Do you want to know how many times I’ve been called a gold digger? Too many to count. Not to mention that people got in their heads that there's a problem in our relationship, which translated as Danny’s weak performance two days ago.
It’s not like he played that badly, anyway. It was just an average performance, nothing to write home about, and since every single team is thirsty for blood, they did their best to steamroll the Nailers—and steamroll them is exactly what they did.
Trouble in paradise? One article reads, stating all the reasons why Danny wasn’t his heroic self during that last game, all of them, spoiler, concerning me.
“Fiona has to go”, some bald o
verweight pundit is blabbering on TV right now, telling his viewers that, instead of helping Danny, I’m hampering his performance. Seriously?
You know what I need to do? Tune all this out. I close my laptop, shut down the TV and stretch; maybe I’ll do some yoga to clear my head. I’m sure that in a few days nobody’s going to care about this. Danny will be back to winning, and no one will care about the game he lost. Besides, the media loves me so much that I doubt they’ll completely turn against me.
Yeah, that’s it. In a day or two things will go back to normal, and then I’ll be back to being America’s darling once more.
Or so I hope.
16
Danny
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I’ve just got home and I can already tell that something’s not quite right. She’s usually on me before I take two steps inside of the apartment, and by the time I take off my shoes I usually have already made her cum twice. But now she’s sitting on the couch, wearing yoga pants with a blanket over her head and a giant bowl of ice cream on her lap. Sigh, this again.
“Look at that,” she points at the television without even looking at me, waving the spoon she has in her fingers at the guy on the TV. “He’s saying that I’m a bad role model for young girls.”
Without saying a word I just go around the couch, grab the remote, and turn off the TV. “Hey!” she protests, but I’m not even listening now.
“Why are you watching that crap, Fiona?” I ask her, sitting down by her side and taking the bowl of ice cream out of her lap. She’s gorgeous even in her old yoga pants, so I pull her into me, propping her up on my knees and pressing my mouth on hers.
Her face lightens up with a smile and she turns around, opening her legs and straddling me.
“I missed you,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against mine. She’s happy to see me, that much I can tell, but there’s a sadness in her voice that I’m not really into.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been watching that bullshit on TV since you got here,” I say, and the look on her face gives away the answer. I gave her my spare key, and told the doorman she could come up anytime because I wanted her around, not because I wanted her to be gorging on the news.
“What was it today?” I ask her, vaguely aware that the media has been raising a shit storm since that last game. That’s all I know, though, I don’t give a fuck about what some asshole on the TV says about me. As far as I’m concerned they could be saying I’m a fucking alien from Mars hell bent on dominating the human race, and I wouldn’t care any more than I do right now.
Of course, now that I’m with Fiona, maybe I should start caring. This bullshit has started to take a toll on her. Even though she’s a natural in front of the camera, she’s too green to handle the ugly media beast. And I guess she’s slowly starting to realize it.
“Oh, the usual. They’re still being hard asses about that loss,” she whispers, sliding her hand down my chest and guiding her fingers to my crotch. By now I already have a massive hard-on, and I’m only half-listening to what she’s saying. Hey, don’t look at me like that; when it comes to sex, I’m a one-track kind of man.
“Fuck ‘em,” I whisper, running my fingers through her hair and yanking on it. She throws her head back and I press my lips against her neck, slowly kissing her skin in a downward line that leads straight to her breasts.
“They’ll come around,” she says, placing both her hands on my neck and sighing heavily. Somehow, I don’t like the way that sounds. They’ll come around; what does that even mean? Does she care that much about what these assholes think?
“Fiona, fuck, forget about them,” I say, looking her straight in the eye. “Who cares if they come around, or if they hate us for all eternity?”
“I care,” she tells me, and I just blink my eyes, staring at her in disbelief.
“Why?” Really, why? Why would a normal person worry about bullshit like this? Sure, I get it that having your name dragged through the mud isn’t that much fun, but it shouldn’t be that important.
“Why? Because it matters, Danny!” She cries out, rolling to the side and sitting up on the couch. Folding her arms, she purses her lips and looks at me with exasperation. “I don’t like being accused of… of everything that’s wrong with the world!”
“I don’t like saying this… But I told you so.”
“Well, you’re used to it! You have all the attention, and people love you! You lost that game, and I’m the one being blamed for it!” Okay, fuck, what is this? Are we actually fighting? We've never had a fight before, and I can’t believe that our first fight is about the fucking media. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay, Fiona, I don’t know what's got into you, but you have to forget about --”
“Forget, forget! That’s all you know how to say. I can’t forget; I can’t walk around as if this isn’t happening. No matter what they say about you, you still have your career, your contract… Everything! And what do I have? I’m just another overworked twenty-something being massacred by the news because I dare to exist!”
Well, fuck, I don’t even know what to say. I try and reach for her, but she swats my hand away. Before I think of anything to say, she gets up, tears welling up in her eyes and walks upstairs to the bedroom. I go after her, but by the time I’m walking up the stairs, she’s already coming down, her purse against her chest.
“Fiona, I--” Without allowing me to say a fucking thing, she walks past me and goes straight for the door. She bolts out, slamming the door on her way out and leaving me alone in the apartment.
I stand there, looking around completely dumbfounded. I just got home, for fuck’s sake. I drove here as fast as I could, anxious to be with her, to feel her naked body against mine… And now this! I feel angry, but I don’t even know to whom I should direct that anger—if to her, to me, or to the media. Forget about money, fame, or even the Super Bowl. I just want things to work out with Fiona.
Is that too much to ask?
17
Fiona
THE END IS COMING.
Four words, and they are written with such confidence that they sound like the truth. I’m standing outside a newsstand, holding the latest New York Daily Journal in my hands, and that’s the headline over a picture of me running out of Trump Tower. That was yesterday, right after my fight with Danny. Somehow, there must've been some paparazzi waiting around for something to happen, and I guess they got what they wanted.
I left the house for a walk, thinking that it’d help me clear my head, but now I wish I had just stayed home. I read the article, my fingers trembling with each sentence.
Twenty-two-year-old Fiona Barnett was seen yesterday leaving Trump Tower in a hurried state. Judging by the way she left, completely alone, it seems that her fiery romance with the Nailers’ quarterback star is coming to an end.
An intern at Price Coopers, Fiona saw her chance to climb the social ladder when Daniel Manning asked for her number on live TV, minutes after accidentally crashing into her. What started as an invitation made out of pity for a young girl, turned into a nightmare for Daniel Manning. After somehow dazzling the Nailers’ quarterback over dinner, Fiona Barnett soon started taking credit for his success, and even moved to his high-rise condo at Trump Tower.
Still, there’s hope for Nailers’ fans. It seems that Daniel Manning finally came to his senses, and a separation seems to be imminent.
The article goes on and on, blaming Danny’s faltering performance and, somehow, putting me as the main culprit behind the rise of a vain society. Like, seriously? I don’t even know if they’re really talking about me, because this is total garbage. They went as far as digging into my personal life, and a few passages are particularly vicious.
Friends with some of New York’s crème de lá crème such as the wife of the notorious St. Alban’s prince, Connor d’Avington, and the wife of billionaire Apollo Kane, it seems that Miss Fiona will stop at nothing to achieve the same thing her friends have: a high-status marriage.
I feel like killing someone right now. Or crying. I’m not sure which. Feeling lightheaded, I place the newspaper back on the rack and start walking back home. People are staring at me in the same way they used to do when I started dating Danny, but now… Now it’s different. New York feels hostile. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it seems that when people look at me, they’re not smiling.
There she goes, that gold digger, I can almost hear them think. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I let myself be swooned by the media because I wanted to be something I’m not. I mean, look at all my friends… They've all found their Prince Charming, and they’re living in mansions and palaces. And I’m just fighting trying to survive my internship while trying to scrape enough money to pay the rent of the apartment I share with Becca.
Maybe my romance with Danny was just an illusion. And maybe the newspapers are right too; maybe I’m hindering him, distracting him while he should be focusing on the playoffs. God, I feel so worthless right now.
I start walking faster, desperate to get home as soon as I can. I think I’ll just sit down in front of the TV, put on some Grey’s Anatomy and forget about the whole world while drowning in ice cream. Sure, go right ahead and add walking cliché to the horrible list of things people are calling me. See if I care.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice there’s someone blocking the way to my building, so I just bump against him.
“Sorry,” I cry out, taking a step back and realizing that the person I bumped against is Danny himself. My heart sinks inside my chest; after yesterday’s fight, what other reason is there for him to drive here? He’s breaking up with me, oh God. This day is quickly going downhill.
