Bad Boys for Hire_Nick

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Wuss,” Jeanine said. “You shared everything with me, enough so my expectations are huge.”

  Sour acid bubbled in Marcia’s stomach and her gut ground and rumbled. What could she do? Brock was a free agent. If hearing about Jeanine and Brock in bed wasn’t enough to stop the aching and dreams she had for him, nothing would.

  Bottom line, she had a daughter to worry about. A daughter whose biological father had sworn he never wanted children.

  Marcia bade Jeanine good night, silenced her phone, and pulled the covers over her head. Once, she’d believed in the power of love, sure that her love and that of her parents would show Brock the possibility of a happy, loving family. They’d been friends since high school where he was a star athlete, but a shy and bitter boy, always a loner. She’d been so sure of his love, that when she found herself pregnant, she’d prepared him a candlelight dinner to tell him about it.

  Brock had been excited all evening, waiting for the draft. “It has to be the Rattlers. I want to stay here.”

  “It’s okay if it isn’t,” she said. “I’ll move wherever you go.”

  Perhaps that had been too forward, but she was sure he wanted her company. Besides, she had a positive pregnancy test, and once he found out, he’d do the right thing and stick with her.

  He had gobbled up her steak and downed her wine, and she’d subtly turned the conversation to more practical matters, such as where they’d live and what she would be doing.

  His response had shown his immature thinking. “I’m sure you can find a job easily. There ought to be waitressing jobs everywhere we go.”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting tables. I’d rather start a family right away. I’ve always loved children.”

  Brock put down his fork and knife, his eyes big. “Is that what you want? A family?”

  Feeling encouraged, she slipped a hand on his knee. “Yes, hopefully.”

  His leg muscles tensed, and he cupped his hand over hers. “It’s only going to be us two, you know.”

  “For now, but you never know. Maybe someday we might have a few additions.”

  He shook his head, his entire body knotted. “Not with me, sweetie. I thought we’d agreed.”

  “Well, yes, but, that was before you proposed.” She touched the side of his face and smiled sweetly.

  “Why would that change anything?” His voice had grown cold. “You know I could never be a father. Never. It hurts me when you bring it up, knowing what my father did to me and my mother.”

  Of course she’d known. But his father had gone overseas for business the past few years, and she’d thought he’d healed from his wounds.

  That night, they’d made love and he was as sweet and tender as ever, holding her, stroking her face and pampering her. She’d almost believed he’d reconsider, that he’d be elated to find out about her pregnancy.

  But, as she was falling asleep, he’d said, “I don’t like children. Sometimes I can see why my father beat me. I was such a brat. I was noisy and broke things. I pissed him off and he hurt my mother. I’d never want to take it out on you, ever.”

  When he was drafted by a minor league team in Louisiana, she’d shut him out of her life, telling him she didn’t love him enough to leave her parents and her home, that he wasn’t the man she wanted to marry.

  An owl hooted outside and coyotes yipped in the desert night. Marcia flipped the curtains aside and looked up at the full moon. Now that he was back, her excuse wore thin, onion skin thin. Her love for him flared hotter, whether he wanted Bianca or not. It was something she couldn’t control.

  For her daughter’s sake, she could not succumb to his charms. Never. Brock Carter was an awesome lover, but as he admitted himself, he wasn’t cut out to be a father. All he’d known was violence, and that would be his natural response.

  The sooner Brock left town, the better. Being asked to spring training with the Rattlers wasn’t a done deal. Marcia had a few strings she could pull with Conrad’s father, who owned the Rattlers. Maybe she could orchestrate a trade and ensure he played ball far away in Boston or Seattle.

  Comforted by her plan, Marcia dropped back onto the bed, bunched the pillow under her head, and closed her eyes.

  Pebbles rattled against her window. She clutched the sheets to her chest and listened, her heart thumping painfully, expectant.

  Her cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. A text message from Brock popped onto the screen. I’m outside your window. Can we talk?

  She texted back. No, I’m going to sleep.

  You’re not asleep now. I’ll take you for a ride.

  A ride on his Harley, like old times. To feel the rumble between her thighs, her arms wrapped around the man she still loved, the wind buffeting her face. It could never be. She had Bianca, and he’d hate her for foisting a child on him.

  The phone vibrated again. I’m not going away until you ride with me.

  She typed. Then you can stay out there all night.

  This time, she turned off her phone and hid her head under the pillow. Not that she was getting any sleep tonight. Not anytime soon—knowing Brock was out there, knowing she had only to open the window.

  He was definitely back, and in a big way. Could her heart survive a second chance?

  Buy or Borrow PLAYING WITHOUT RULES to continue reading.

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  Turn the page to read an excerpt from Santa’s Pet, a sexy Christmas romance.

  Excerpt from Santa’s Pet

  If you enjoyed Nick and Carol’s story, you’ll love Brittney and Ben in Santa’s Pet along with their pets, Treat, the basset hound, and Big Blizzard, a loudmouthed cockatoo, along with wardrobe malfunctions, hackers, and a run in with the police. It all started when Brittney becomes substitute elf to Ben, a substitute Santa filling in for his grandfather.

  ~ Brittney ~

  “Why do I have to look sexy?” I tug at the cheap polyester fabric of my sister Lacy’s skimpy elf costume. My boobs are bigger than hers, and even with the fake fur trim, my cleavage is as big as a sumo wrestler’s butt crack.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not overweight, but having double D’s means I’m top heavy, always in danger of toppling, or even worse, busting out with a wardrobe malfunction. Which is why I prefer to be behind the checkout counter at our parents’ Christmas tree farm or even better, facing a huge computer screen and writing code, not on display as an elf helping Santa give away rescue pets.

  “Sexy sells,” Lacy says, handing me fishnet stockings. “Put these on under the fluffy, furry elf boots.”

  Uggs they’re not. These “boots” have six-inch spike heels and fur.

  “Seriously?” I dangled the stockings sold only in adult specialty stores or online and delivered in brown paper. “I’ve never seen an elf wear fishnet stockings. Where’d you throw the candy cane striped ones that came with this?”

  “Trust me,” my sexy sister, known as Racy Lacy, says. “You don’t want candy cane legs. They’re unflattering and will add twenty pounds to you.”

  “Only because I’m wearing this mini dress. It’s so short and tight, I can’t even bend down.”

  “Yes, you can.” Lacy’s eyes glint with mischief. “And won’t old Santa get an eyeful.”

  “Oh, you’ve gone too far.” I roll my eyes back until they scrape my frontal lobe. “I’m supposed to be helping kids find pets to rescue, not flirt with Grandpa Powers.”

  Every year, the Powers Pet Store helps the Ragamuffin’s Rescue charity run an adoption event at our Christmas tree farm during the weekends leading up to Christmas. Dogs, cat, birds, bunnies, farm animals, and an occasional squirrel are brought in from rescue centers all over the San Francisco Bay Area and given the opportunity to meet prospective owners. The highlight of the event is taking a picture with an authentic Santa Claus, that is, one who is well over seventy years old and has a real white beard, a jiggl
y jelly belly, and a hearty deep ho, ho, ho.

  My outgoing, flirty elder sister, Lacy, had always been the elf who helped the parents, usually the fathers, decide to spring for the pets. But this year, she’s pregnant and none of the maternity Christmas elf costumes are racy enough for her. Since Grandpa Powers is my grandfather’s best buddy, I’m stuck substituting for her at the pet rescue gala.

  “You’re a natural.” Lacy brushes blush over my pale, sallow cheeks. “Blonde, blue-eyed, so white you look like you came from the North Pole. Won’t Grandpa Powers’ eyes twinkle when he puts you on his lap?”

  I slap at my sister’s fluttery hand. “I’m not sitting on his lap.”

  “You used to. It was the highlight of your year. You couldn’t wait to sit on Santa’s lap.”

  “That was before I knew Grandpa Powers wasn’t really Santa.” I can’t believe we’re having this discussion. “I was a baby.”

  “Oh, come on, you were fifteen before you stopped sitting on Santa’s lap. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. Dad says his health hasn’t been the best.”

  “In that case, I better wear something more modest, like maybe an angel costume.”

  Lacy clapped her chest. “Heaven forbid. You might scare him straight to the next world. You look beautiful. Go to the barn and do your job. We’ve got over a hundred pets who need new homes. Last year was such a big success that we doubled the number of animals.”

  Grrr … My sister’s a marketing consultant. She has people skills. She’s sparkly and charming, a real extrovert. She could talk penguins into buying snow tires and mosquitos into giving blood. Me? I’m a computer nerd. I started my own software company before I was out of braces. I don’t socialize, I social media. I don’t gossip, I instant message. I don’t flirt. I use emoticons.

  And I have no idea how I’m going to help Santa give away a hundred pets.

  I’m so screwed, I need a miracle.

  ~ Ben ~

  Ben Powers was too big for the Santa suit. At two hundred and forty pounds, he was looking to be one of the top pro draft picks next spring until his team, the University of California Goldrushers, blew the season with a 6-6 record. What horrid luck to end his senior year season with no chance of a bowl game appearance.

  Now, he wasn’t sure he’d be ranked high enough, despite leading the regular season with stops and slamming quarterbacks left and right, earning him the nickname of Bamm-Bamm Powers from the press.

  “I’m not sure you want me ripping up your suit,” Ben said to his grandfather, Jon Powers, the usual Santa who represented his pet store at the annual Christmas Rescue event held at the Reed Christmas Tree farm.

  “No time to find another one,” Grandpa said. “You’ll just have to fit into it without the fake belly.”

  Ben stretched the suit over his broad shoulders, unable to button it to the top. “This isn’t working. Isn’t there a Santa agency where you can call for a substitute?”

  “Not this close to Christmas. Besides, I’ve always wanted one of my grandsons to follow in my footsteps.”

  Grandpa had suffered a mild heart attack earlier this week and had been ordered by his doctor to take it easy, which meant no picking up children and bouncing them in his lap. Some of the toddlers could be pretty hefty, and oftentimes, parents wanted their twins and triplets to all climb aboard for a single photo.

  Since his playing season was over, Ben had volunteered to help Grandpa. Anything was better than going home to a snowy, windswept ranch in Wyoming where the entire town lived and breathed football, and every family gathering centered around the large screen TV. Usually, he wasn’t home since he had to train with his team for the bowl game, and he knew that the entire town would tune in to watch him play. Unfortunately, this year, he was sidelined, and the last thing he wanted was to be on the audience side of a TV screen.

  Ben pulled up the plush red pants and cinched the generous waist. “The legs are too short.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be wearing boots.” Grandpa hobbled to the closet and dug out a pair of shiny plastic boots with fake fur lining. “These might be a squeeze too, but you won’t be walking much.”

  Ben snagged the boots, shaking his head. This gig was going to be a shit-show. Not only did he have to wear this hot, uncomfortable and itchy outfit, he’d have to endure grubby fingers pawing him and slobbery kisses from the little darlings.

  But he owed it to his grandfather for helping him escape the ranch. Ben’s father had married a widow whose husband had left her with a huge spread of ranchland. Suddenly, twelve-year-old Ben and his elder brothers, Damon and Nash, were shipped from San Francisco to a sprawling ranch outside of Buffalo, Wyoming near the Bighorn Mountains to blend in with an existing family full of kids. Only big brother Braden got away, since he was already going to college, although Ben hadn’t seen him since then. Seems like after Mother died, Braden cut all ties to what was left of the family.

  “How many hours do I have to be in this costume?” Ben tugged the boots in place. Yep. They were tight and pinched his toes at the tip.

  “Woorrroooaahh!” Treat, Grandpa’s elderly basset hound raised his head, howling his disapproval. Either that, or he was begging for a treat.

  Grandpa bent over and scratched his dog all over his neck and long, floppy ears. “You silly dog, that’s Ben pretending to be me. It’ll be eight hours in the suit, but it’ll go fast. The elf will bring the kids and pets to you, and all you have to do is sit still while she arranges them for the picture. You don’t even have to smile, since no one can see your face behind the beard.”

  “Buh-buh beard?” Ben rubbed his smoothly shaven jaw as horror dawned on him. Not only was he going to be stuck for eight sweltering hours in a barn surrounded by barks, squawks, and howls, but he’d be behind a mass of yucky hair or polyester or whatever fake beards were made of.

  “That’s the most important part of the costume,” Grandpa said. “Mine is one of the finest—made of hair from a yak’s belly. You’ll see. It’ll make you look and feel like a real Santa. Of course, I don’t use it anymore since I grew my own.”

  Grandpa tugged at his own flowing, human-haired beard that he kept year-round.

  “Yak’s belly?” Ben sputtered.

  “And so’s the wig.” Grandpa tottered to his chest of drawers and extracted a flowy, shimmering mass of hair. “Even comes with a mustache and matching eyebrows.”

  “How are you going to get all that on me?” Sweat popped over Ben’s forehead at the prospect of all that hot hair covering him. California was definitely not the North Pole, and even in December, the mercury could soar into the eighties. Add to that a stuffy barn full of animals. Cripes jiminy.

  “Glue!” Grandpa dug out a small plastic bottle. “Don’t worry, this is medical grade. Hold still.”

  For the next half hour or so, Grandpa meticulously applied glue and facial hair first to Ben’s chin and cheeks, and then his upper lip for the mustache. He pressed the beard with the side of a comb and ordered Ben to close his eyes while he fixed the bushy white eyebrows.

  Never in all these years when his grandfather played Santa Claus, had Ben ever imagined how much time and trouble went into the prep work. He’d always looked forward to the gifts and when he was younger, sitting on Santa’s lap and pulling his beard to see if it was real. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and boy did it pinch.

  The top of the suit wasn’t wide enough whereas the belly area sagged. Ben tried buttoning to the collar, but wasn’t able to. Fortunately the long flowing beard covered the part of his chest he had no choice but to leave exposed.

  Grandpa stood back, hands on his hips and nodded, admiring his handiwork. “Put on the pair of wire-rim glasses and you’ll look just like me, a real Santa from the North Pole.”

  “Woorrrooo!” Treat agreed. The loose skin hanging off his jowls flopped merrily, and he wiggled his fat rump on the floor.

  “I’ll skip the glasses. Guess we gotta go get started?”

&
nbsp; “One sec while I dress up Treat.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Ben said, almost rolling his eyes. The glue on his face was so stiff, he felt as if he was encased in a mummy mask.

  “He’s a big lazy dog anyway. Just feed him a doggy treat every so often and he’ll stay at your side. Makes people think you’re a real Santa with a real reindog.” Grandpa patted his ample belly and ho, ho, ho’d like a real Santa.

  He rolled a red velvety tube over Treat’s head and stuck his front legs through two short cuffs of white fur. After untangling the dog’s floor-length ears from the costume, Grandpa buckled a harness full of jingle bells over Treat’s shoulders, and tied his waist with a black belt.

  Treat stared dolefully at Ben, as if he too, would rather be anywhere else than encased in a red Santa suit in a barn full of kids.

  “Ready?” Grandpa said, stuffing a handful of doggie biscuits in Treat’s mouth.

  “As ready as ever. Are you coming along?”

  “I’ll drop by later in the afternoon,” Grandpa said. “Gotta rest the ticker.”

  “I’d do anything for you.” Ben stood to hug him. His shoulders were so cramped in the tight suit, he could barely move his arms, much less pick up children. Which might be a good thing. Let the elf do the hefting. Maybe she’d turn out to be a female linebacker this year. “So, who’s the elf? Is she going to be in charge?”

  “Don’t worry. She does it every year.” Grandpa attached a leash to Treat, who groaned as if getting up was a pain.

  “Good. Because I’m just going to just sit there. This outfit’s so tight, if I bend over, it might rip.”

  “No bending needed. Lacy will arrange everything. You remember her?”

  When Ben’s mother had died, he and his brothers had stayed with his grandparents while his father traveled in his job selling animal feed. For a short while, they’d lived next door to the Reeds who owned the Christmas tree farm.

  “Yes, who wouldn’t?” He recalled the bright auburn-haired teenage girl who was the center of attention.